peevish mama

Yesterday was such an odd day – it was the quintessential, hot, sunny summer day in the Midwest replete with a comfortingly familiar level of humidity and mosquito action. We swam, we idled around home, we face painted, we rode our bikes and I even broke out the Deep Woods OFF for the first time this season. It was a good day. It was a regular day. And in the midst of my morning, I find out Farrah Fawcett died, which is sad, but she was sick and it was no great surprise. I always loved Farrah in that sad sort of way a little Argentine girl living in Michigan would. She was the ideal, and I, with my dark hair, big feet, long legs and funny name, was most definitely not. Before a family vacation, I even got my hair cut so that it would “feather,” having no clue that you needed a curling iron to do it. Not to mention that my hair was so thick and heavy that it would have required mad skilz, copious amounts of hair spray and a head immobilizer for me to pull off a feathered do. Instead my hair fell around my face like Cousin It until my mom got so exasperated she bought a barrette from a Disney World gift shop to pin it away from my face. Michigan in the seventies was not a place you wanted to be different. It was a time before Benneton ads, J Lo, Beyoncé, and High School Musical. Little girls swoon when they find out my name now, but back then, Gabriela was odd and ugly – just like me. Revisiting those youthful cringes and tinges upon hearing of Farrah’s death, while not entirely surprising, amounted to more than plenty melancholy nostalgia for a hot June day.

I screamed and practically jumped out of my skin when I read that Michael Jackson had died. Michael Jackson is dead. Not that he was the picture of vitality, by any stretch, but still – it just doesn’t seem possible! Talk about a tragic life spiral. I’ve always been a fan, but like most people, had sort of let him go as he got weirder and whiter – as he finally succeeded in erasing all traces of the beautiful black boy he had once been. He was so talented that it somehow made his erratic behavior and freaky looks all that much more distasteful. It just became easier to ignore him than to try to understand what was going on chez Neverland. Oh, but what a cool little kid he was, what a voice, what a dancer! And to die at fifty, alone, and hidden away in that big weird house, living out a fantasy most certainly gone awry. Tragic. Check this out, though. The footage from Harlem is breathtaking and I could watch that all day. Hopefully he’s watching from wherever he is and has found whatever he was looking for. Good bye MJ.

And good bye beautiful Farrah.

So on Saturday, I surprised Supergirl after her muddy soccer game and took her to Hair Police in Uptown for some colored extensions. She’s been begging since last summer when one of her swim coaches showed up with purple and green streaks and I promised her she could get them for her kindergarten graduation. (I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be considered kosher uniform policy). As we scurried through the rain, up the stairs to the destroyed, warehousy salon, I had to chuckle at Supergirl for being so excited about doing something that she perceives to be edgy and subversive. But I was also chuckling at myself, for taking my camera, and for so predictably playing the part of the quote unquote cool mom, who is so hip that she honors her girl’s wishes for colored hair and surprises her with an appointment the day after school ends. As I watched Supergirl chat with the beautiful, dread-locked Satya, I rifled through a magazine and put it down, sighing to myself: I am a walking cliché.

I am a grup. I am a grown up who is pretending she is not grown up. I am in love with youth culture because that’s where all the color and emotion and good seem to live. My take away from the state of the world right now: at best, adults are boring; at worst, they are corrupt or inept. I don’t dress my age. I don’t act my age. But somehow, I feel like I can get away with it because I am aware of my little charade, my little schtick. I’m totally on to myself. Self-awareness excuses anything, right?

Obviously, per the article on grups linked above, clinging to the stuff of youth – music, cool clothes, cool toys – is a bit of an epidemic among thirty and forty somethings. But maybe this is the new age appropriate way to act. Forty is the new thirty and so on. Maybe we stay current with music and fashion because, in and of themselves, they are beautiful things. Why would we give up our claim to the things we have always loved just because we may be getting a bit long in the tooth? Whoever says we should is just bullshit. And if you’re going to look oldish, isn’t it better to look good oldish than simply old oldish? That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I may be a walking cliché, but my daughter looks kick-ass. And judging from the bevy of girls and mamas crowding around her at the pool today, I think we may just have started something. Satya’s not going to know what hit her when they all start showing up for their little piece of cool summer color. Makes me smile just thinking about it.

I would. Alas, these beautiful, sexy Herve Leger bandage bikinis would be a tad out of place at the Minnesota watering holes I frequent with my cheel’ren. Even with the nipslip, I am in love with the black. Aren’t they stunning? Oh to be young, rich, fabulous and heading to the French Riviera.

Today I stumbled upon this very cool grass roots movement to preserve independent local businesses and am feeling halleluia grateful that there are people out there who are thinking what I’m thinking, but actually get off their fat asses to do something about it. I think this is a beautiful, inspired idea and although it’s something a lot of us feel on an amorphous, gut level, it’s helpful to have it all boiled down to the nitty gritty.

In Minneapolis, we are blessed with countless galleries, clothing boutiques, restaurants, book stores, coffee shops, ice cream shops, hardware stores and garden stores tucked away into our neighborhoods like aces and queens in a deck of cards. That’s why we Minneapolitans are all still here – paying more money for less house and putting up with the airplane noise. We stay so we can see more blue signs than red during election season, for the privilege of having the lakes belong to all of us, not just the lucky few with houses around them, and because of our neighborhood businesses. We’re here because we have sidewalks, which means there’s a designated spot for chatting with neighbors and, um, walking and hey, we actually have somewhere to walk to!

Within walking distance of my house I could purchase a pair of antlers, a bat skeleton or a dried Manzanita branch at Leuhmann, a card, a Laguiole wine opener, a diary or a baby gift at Patina, a chocolate shake and a burger at the Malt Shop, a glass of Prosecco and a Walleye Po’Boy at Blackbird Cafe, or sauteed Australian sea bass, parsley puree, parsnips and creamy mussel foam with a side of pappardelle with black truffles at Heidi’s.  And that’s just one corner! Also at that intersection are an eco-luxe home design and furnishings store called Casa Verde, an upholstery shop, a bird supplies store, and the very sweet dry cleaner we go to. If I walk the other direction I can get to the library, my supermarket, a massage and acupuncture place called Praxis, and a cute new yoga place called Sigh.  

We’re all busy and trying like nobody’s business to multitask – to crank out those errands in the two and a half hours the kid is at preschool. If I’m at Target and I need thank you notes, I’ll probably save myself the trip to the neighborhood card shop and just pick them up. The 3/50 Project is a good reminder to stop and think about where else I could be spending my dollars. Where will they do more good, be more enriching for our community, and sustain the kind of diverse and colorful businesses I want within walking distance of my house? 

It’s not about spending more money – it’s about being smart about where we spend our money. It’s about not taking our little businesses for granted.

Here are the three businesses where I plan to show a little love this month. And please, oh please, tell me yours. We all love a hot tip.

Grand Cafe – my friend Lady Doctah K swept me and my knee away for a little lunchy on Friday and I have been kicking myself ever since that I don’t go Grand Cafe every single damn day. It’s been far too long and how, but how could I have forgotten how charming and perfect this little place is? Here is an example of a place that I love which could die for lack of attention – like a plant – and then I would spend the rest of my days moaning about how much I miss Grand Cafe while secretly (and rightfully) feeling wretchedly guilty. But it’s not too late! It’s still cool and unfussy inside, in that Parisian, worn wood, tiny booth, big kitchen stuffed in the back that turns out miracles on white plates kind of way. I had the polenta with a spinach, caramelized onion and artichoke sauté in a beautiful pool of Romesco sauce and it was heavenly. The polenta looked like two huge scallops and was light, nutty and the perfect sponge for the sweet, peppery, almond-crunchy Romesco. Lady Doctah K had a beautiful potato parsnip soup with a swirl of smoked almond picata and a delicious looking Caesar salad which came with a crispy piece of pancetta sitting on top of it like a jaunty hat. I tried the pancetta and it was like a succulent pig and a crispy potato chip shattered all taboos, defied their families, fell in love and had a beautiful saltydelicious baby.

Cliché - my friend Lady Canada (I’ve decided everyone from book club will be a lady), who also happens to be a personal style consultant, told me about Cliché and although I hate to give away my secret gems, I must and will for the greater good. I love this store. It’s totally quirky, hip and edgy yet lady-like. Husband and wife team Joshua and Delayna Sundberg feature lots of local talent and manage to make the store seem casual and almost homey. Cliché’s selection perfectly dovetails with my mix it up, high low, frilly butch, fashion ethos. Doctor Dash bought me a really cool bag there for Christmas by a local designer named NIKI – it was reasonably priced, beautifully made and cooler than any IT bag out there for quadruple the price. Lovey. Love. Love.

Uncommon Gardens - There are a number of lovely garden stores around here, so it’s hard to pick one, but I like Uncommon Gardens because the owner, Peggy Poore, and all of her staff are very nice women who know their stuff. They’re willing to help but equally good at backing off when you need a little space to screw up your face trying to get a mental image of your side yard. There are a couple of cats roaming around, which amuse Devil Baby, and it’s compact enough that I can let the kids wander while I shop. She specializes in hard to find plant varietals and cool, out-of-the-ordinary garden decor, so you could go nuts if you were a real garden geek. I am not, but I’ve always found everything I need and more. I happen to love this garden maven’s beautiful space and I would like her business to thrive like a robust (insert appropriate geeky plant simile here).

Share the love. For more info on the 3/50 Project.

                                                       Photo by Helmut Newton

My friend, Red Vogue, saved me today. She spirited me away to June, a beautiful vintage clothing store she recently discovered. I didn’t take much convincing. You’ll love it, you can just sit in the big chairs and I’ll bring you things to try on. It’s totally you. Beautiful store, beautifully edited, something something something . . . bustier with feathers . . .  

Feathers? Feathers. Now you’ve got my attention, lady. 

I’ve said it before, but normally, the change of seasons gets me all a dither about clothes. Not this spring. Right now it’s thermal tees and yoga pants every day. Totally boring. Completely utilitarian. No beauty. No creativity. No edge. No frilly. No feminine. No flirty. No nothing.

It felt so good to be out, to try on beautiful clothes, to finger dainty evening bags and chunky cocktail rings. I got to sink into a cushy chair and page through fashion photography books while Red Vogue emerged through red velvet curtains from time to time in different pieces. Why haven’t I shopped with her before? She used to be a model for Christ’s sake! Her legs are impossibly long and she carries herself with the insouciance and languid grace of a crane. Clothes look amazing on her. Not to mention scarves – she rocks scarves like a second skin – like the French.

We both scored. She got a gorgeous pencil skirt and black kitten heels. I got a sweet teal dress and a sexy 70’s inspired cover up for the pool this summer. I think my Visa might have squealed when it saw the light of day after all this time.

Then we went to Liberty for custard. And then home. A perfect afternoon. Jesusmaryjoseph, I needed that. I feel like I got to exhale for the first time in weeks.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Red Vogue emails me the Helmut Newton photo above. Slay me now. I will look at this every day until I’m off these wretched crutches. 

Merci mille fois, Red Vogue.

Perhaps there is something amiss when your son’s croak from the way back of the minivan is barely audible over the music: Mom, I just can’t listen to so much rap in the morning.

Perhaps there is something amiss when your morning goodbye to your kids concludes with a cheery: And try not to get lice!

I’ll tell you one thing that was not amiss, however, and it was M.I.A. rocking the Grammy’s last night with her gigantic full term belly. She was out there with T.I., Kanye, Jay Z, and Lil’ Wayne thumpin’ Swagger Like Us like nobody’s business (love this song, love this girl, love her original Paper Planes). I just wish she’d checked with me before busting out in that polka-dotted, sheer black body suit. M.I.A. can do no wrong in my book – she is so bad ass that, honestly, she can (and does) get away with anything. But the gigantic black polka-dots translated as more Minnie Mouse than Tamil Tiger and it really, really wasn’t working for me – notwithstanding the fact that she put her beautiful belly front and center (which I fully applaud). 

If I was M.I.A. (believe you me, this would not be the first time one of my reveries began with those words).  So, if I was M.I.A. I would have worn a beautiful bejeweled bra with lots of structure and support for my pendulous pregnancy breasts. Nothing tacky, no fake pasties, just really really blingy – in gold. I would have worn a flowy, slightly sheer matching sarong, slung way low under my belly. The sarong would be to the floor but you would definitely see a little leg. No shoes, lots of bangles. My hair would be the same – perfectly disheveled – a few sandy salty days away from dreads – and heck, I’d even keep the black Wayfarers. And lastly, I’d borrow Gwen Stefani’s fanciest bindi and stick it to my outie belly button.  If I was feeling less exotic and more street, I’d do a tiny white tank, cut off right above my belly, low low low rider baggy jeans and some cool body paint/graffiti action on my belly. You feel me? 

M.I.A. if you need me, I’m right here, in Minneapolis, Minnesota – at the ready to be your stylist. I can be your Rachel Zoe. You got some balls, lady and I love you for that. I totally get that you aren’t about being glamorous and fitting into anyone’s idea of what a woman should be and that’s what makes you so freaking fabulous. Still, polka dots (even ironic polka dots) are a killer.

Our friends Circus Lady and Rip Van Techno threw a fabulous holiday party last night – one that has left me typing through a pleasantly woozy afterglow and alarmingly smudged mascara.  These two always manage to walk the fine line between swanky and warm . . . rowdy and refined . . . and Circus Lady deserves a major shout-out for whipping together a gorgeous table of delectable victuals with nary a hint of the blood, sweat and tears that inevitably must have gone into it all.  They are the consummate hosts and I admit I am shamelessly using positive reinforcement to ensure many future fests at their house.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  I love a party.  Thank you, friends, for a great one! 

In any event, I made a big chief discovery last night.  I wore a little fur stole (actually, it’s rather large and poufy – very Evita Perón) and, interestingly, it had the same effect as a robust and protuberant ninth month pregnant belly . . . people just want to talk to you and they just can help touching you.  Perfect strangers and old friends.  Both genders.  Never have I been petted so much at a party . . . and when I wasn’t being petted by others, I found myself petting myself . . . it was really quite lovely.  Where did this come from, people would coo. Aahh they would intone with satisfaction when I told them it was vintage, stroking my arm the whole time, unable to resist.  It’s no secret I’m a fan of fur, and this pretty baby warmed my shoulders and my cockles last night.

Due to a variety of factors, my dressing has veered into dodgy territory as of late.  For one thing, I rediscovered flannel shirts as well as the little black Izod shirt my mom bought me three years ago.  Both have the ability to nudge an otherwise classic look into freaky new terrain.  I am loving the pseudo Prepster and pseudo Rockabilly chick looks right now – especially when you throw in a generous pinch of old Jewish woman and a dash of hoochie mama.  The change of seasons always gets me feeling a little frothy about clothes anyway, and since I am trying my darn’dest to be fiscally responsible and not to shop (with varying results), I find myself with no choice but to mine the old closet for gems (with varying results).  Furthermore, it’s easier to get freaky in the winter, what with all those layers and textures – wool and flannel, silk and waffle knit, feathers, leathers and furs – oh my!

Ill-advised as these sartorial experimentations may be, I feel like I can get away with it because I don’t see any one person, outside of my nuclear family, every single day.  I am accountable to no one.  See me looking like a fashion freak once in a while, you don’t bat an eye.  See it day after day, you may start to wonder if I’m not becoming just a titch unhinged. When we lived at Casa Sur, I used to see Red Vogue every day . . . or at least there was the risk of seeing her to keep me in check.  Now I am a true free agent, at liberty to quell my boredom with strange pairings from my closet.  I’m safe . . . for now . . . to cheekily combine rockabilly plaid shirts, grey skinny jeans, nearly over the knee boots and faux furs.  Or wideleg wool trousers with black Chucks, tanktops and lots of gold jewelry.  Doctor Dash notices clothes, but somehow I elicited no comment when I busted out in a pair of purple skinny jeans, my black Izod (collar up) and a kelly green cableknit sweater.  I looked like Muffy on a mission – pissed off at her square parents and hell bent on losing her virginity to Danger Johnny from the wrong side of the tracks.  Throw a floppy hat and a striped scarf into the mix and I’m two ticks away from shuffling a shopping cart down the street.  

Truth is, I don’t have the balls to really bust out à la Little Edie Bouvier pictured above, who thought nothing of topping an already peculiar outfit with a nun’s wimple. She’s the epitome of devil may care balls and high style.  Bananas.  A lady whose eccentric chic I quite admire.

[Just the other day Crackerjack said to me in all seriousness:  “You must be so excited it’s boot time!”  Yes! Yes! Yes!  I’m over the moon!  Obama is elected president AND it’s boot time!!!  A new day indeed!  I appreciate being known for my idiosyncracies, vapid and superficial as they may be.]

The designer Roberto Cavalli said “Right now, the line between sexy and a little vulgar is very thin.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.  Which is probably why I thought it was okay to purchase a pair of skintight purple jeans.  It’s also why I plan to wear a tie-dye bubble dress which is much too short for a woman of my age to a benefit this Saturday night.  It’s a rock concert to benefit Faith’s Lodge and the attire is cocktail with a rock-edge, so my dress (which I realize sounds atrocious but is actually pretty cute) coupled with a pair of scrunchie gray booties, should fit the bill nicely.  I also bought some silver eyeliner but Devil Baby used it to scribble in Saint James’ March of the Penguins book.  The penguins are all looking super fly, but unless I find a sharpener between now and Saturday, there will be no silver eyeliner for me.  

The line between vulgar and sexy has always been thin – at least for a certain kind of sexy.  Of course there is librarian sexy (think eyeglasses on chains, tweed skirts, buns begging to be unfurled and whipped around),  horsey sexy (boots, jodhpurs, riding crops - thwack!), hippy sexy (long hair, tan shoulders, sundresses, no bras), TV lawyer sexy (killer suits, killer pumps, killer office view), Queen Mum sexy (little hats, little suits, little white gloves, tea – wait, scratch that last one).   

But something about just plain sexy sexy, borderline vulgar sexy, is just feeling right on these days in terms of fashion. Maybe it’s the lack of pretense. The fact that it takes some confidence to pull off unapologetically, “confidence” simply being code for: I don’t give a shit anymore.  It just is what it is and if you don’t like it you can avert your eyes, or gossip about me, I don’t care.  Maybe it’s boredom, a bit of an autoimmune response to spending so much time trolling through Bed, Bath and Beyond looking for storage containers for my new house. Mostly, although I hate to admit it, I think I’m wanting to toe the vulgar line because if not now, when?  The clock is ticking . . . snap, snap . . . the time is now.

I have been raiding my eight year old son’s closet and I’m worried about my sartorial impulses.  It all started rather innocently a couple weeks ago at the pool.  It was freezing, we were diehards in the name of squeezing the last juices out of summer and the only warm thing on hand was Saint James’ gray hoodie.  I shoved my giant Foo Fighter arms into it and scuttled to the bathroom with my sauv blanc (that’s what the kids working the snack bar call it) in hand to make sure I didn’t look entirely too absurd.  It didn’t exactly “fit”, but it fit, so I zipped it up and didn’t give it another thought (until Saint James got out of the pool, teeth a’chatter and I had to give it up).  

And just now when I was pretending to look for dirty laundry on a Friday night while waiting for Doctor Dash and Supergirl to come back from their collective run/bike and sit down to the lovely dinner I have prepared, I found a softy soft green flannel shirt that I bought for Saint James in Ann Arbor for when he was bigger and the tag says “10” and I put it on and it’s dreamy and comfy and perfectly shrunken à la Wes Anderson and although I would never buy myself a flannel shirt now, there is something about a flannel shirt that feels so perfectly perfect now that the weather is cooling and there also must be something tugging at my gut-strings considering I spent most of my drunkest and happiest and most carefree years shimmying around in flannel and since Saint James has a uniform now and quite dislikes shirts with collars, chances are this particular collared flannel would never get worn by him and the tag says it cost ten dollars and was originally forty-eight dollars, which is absurdly expensive for a shirt for a boy, but is probably why I bought it in the first place because that’s what I call a shopping triumph, and I love love LOVE a shopping triumph (although I much prefer shopping triumphs that result in something new for me) and so this shirt is mine even though the sleeves barely reach past my elbows and even though tomorrow, without my sauv blanc in hand, I may rethink this.  

* Southbend Indiana, circa 1991.  You can be sure that the photographer also had a dueling flannel on -probably in red – which she got from J. Crew.  Next to an adorably apple-cheeked Doctor Dash is our good friend the Fox who is going to come visit us soon with his family, and next to the Fox is McPhee who we haven’t talked to in years but should, and next to McPhee is Boots, or Botas, so named because he used to stride around campus in knee-high suede fringed Davy Crocket boots and a pair of smallish cut-off denim shorts. So good.  Where are you Botas? 

Just as I was bemoaning the end of summer, something really good happened.  My big fat Fall issue of Vogue came in the mail – the September giant that weighs at least five pounds and never fails to get me all in a lather for boots and frocks.  Even before I subscribed to Vogue, in fact even before I was out of a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, the Fall issue was synonymous with the change of seasons and the fun new clothes that went with it.  

In Michigan we have apples up the wazoo, so to me, cider and Vogue portended cool winds, piles of crunchy leaves and the faint smell of backyard fires.  I would spend hours pouring over pictures that were beautiful and challenging, confusing, even. There were clothes I didn’t understand, but knew on some level were the ne plus ultra.  If I wanted accessible, I could go to Seventeen magazine – and, of course, I did that too.  

Now I want fantasy, inspiration, escape . . . and my lovely Vogue brings me all of those things.

Example:  something I stumbled upon buried deep in the pages of Vogue simultaneously tickles my funny bone and my covet bone and is helping, in some small way, to take the sting out of fast approaching Autumn.  The inimitable Karl Lagerfeld has succeeded in realizing a twenty-year old idea with the help of his resourceful Roman furrier friend.  They have succeeded in creating . . . are you ready for this?  They have succeeded in creating GOLD FUR.  GOLD FUR, people!  G-O-L-D FUR!!!  If you think you detect a note of sarcasm, you’d be wrong.  I love this.  I don’t care who thinks me vapid and cruel.  I love the over-the-topness of it.  It’s gorgeously ridiculous – ridiculously gorgeous!  Leave it to that white-maned, pointy-booted, cigarette-panted, cape-wearing, dark-glasses-clad wily fox to come up with something like this.

These sartorial mad men have figured out a way of sending the fur through a space-age washing machine where a bar of 24 carat gold sits waiting to act like a fabric softener.  The gold is pressurized into a mist and at some point the cellular membranes of the fur open and absorb the gold and then when the pressure returns to normal, the gold is sealed into the fur forever.  Genius.  I love the idea of research and development for gold fur.  I know, I know, we need to find a cure for cancer, but Karl would not be doing that anyway (his fluttering fan would knock over the test tubes), so let him dream up the unthinkable and send his minions on fantastical treasure hunts, luxe and bizarre wild goose chases.     

Alas, I will never own a gold fur.   C’est très chic, mais très chère.  But once again, my big fatty fall fashion mag has succeeded in giving me something delectable to chew on.  Can’t wait to go back and peruse the rest.

About thirty years ago, I got my first pair of Dr. Scholl’s sandals.  They were navy blue and I had to beg for them.  Everyone had a pair, including the mother of my Belgian friend, Effi.  Effi’s mom was, in retrospect, a very sexy Belgian.  She had long straight hair, high cheek bones, perfectly crooked teeth and (aside from her Dr. Scholl’s) many non-sensible shoes that Effi and I used to love to wear around.  (Her father also had a huge collection of Playboys that we used to pilfer and spirit away to the basement for sessions of neck craning naughty giggling, but that has nothing to do with Dr. Scholl.  Even then, I knew the presence of these magazines had something to do with them being liberal Europeans).  

In college my housemates called me General Hasty because, well, I was prone to hasty generalizations.  Apparently I still am.  I realize that a couple blogs ago, I managed to potentially offend Edina moms and lesbians in one fell swoop.  Not an easy feat, but I managed to stay on topic and hit both demographics with a big fat hasty generalization.  

First of all, I apologize for implying that all Edina moms dress their daughters exclusively in Lilly Pulitzer and beribboned pigtails.  Surely not true.  I have met plenty of nice, mellow, edgy, crunchy moms on that side of France Avenue.  Well, a few anyway.  Scratch crunchy though – not a one of those.  It’s just that, blow for blow, you will find a hell of a lot more smocking, pink and green, and proper sandals on the mini chicks over there than you do over here.  No judgment.  I’m just saying . . .   Second of all, I apologize for insinuating that lesbians don’t like to shop.  Anyone who watches The L Word knows that all lesbians consistently knock it out of the park when they dress, as well as accessorize like nobody’s business.  Never have I coveted so many kick-ass necklaces.  I sort of aspire to dress like a chic lesbian myself.  In fact, when I became entrenched in watching The L Word, it dawned on me that I might have gotten a lot more play on the Isle of Lesbos, what, with my boyish figure, my quasi-mullet, my boot fetish and all.  Alas, not in the cards for me.

So lest the Edina mothers and the lesbians unite and form an angry mob and come after me – excuse me a moment while I savor that image – I preemptively offer my mea culpas, olive branches and all the rest.  

What I write, I write with love, because truth is, I gotta a little of both of you in me . . .

This morning Supergirl walked down the stairs resplendent in charcoal grey, grinning from ear to ear.  It’s June.  It’s sunny.  It’s hot.  Tis the season for sundresses and tank tops.  But not for Supergirl.  She was happily swathed in grey knickers and a grey skull t-shirt that she swashbuckled away from Saint James the second he decided it was too small for him.  From the look on her face, she was pleased as punch with her ensemble, feeling tough and sassy, at ease and ready to rumble.  She rooted around in the hall closet for her skull Vans and voila, she was good to go.

We’ve entered new terrain, Supergirl and I.  The terrain of mother-daughter sartorial angst.  I am extremely laissez-faire when it comes to her clothes and have allowed her to slowly and systematically reject anything “girlish” in her wardrobe, to opt instead for a steady stream of shapeless t-shirts from various locales visited by both sets of her peripatetic grandparents and a seemingly endless supply of tie dye shirts.  As our neighbor, Salt and Pepper Polymath, pointed out, she has an impressive collection of Ireland t-shirts.  Not really.  It’s just that she pilfered Devil Baby’s and Saint James’ before they even realized they had been given a souvenir.  

Cute little Splendid tanks I got on sale last summer?  Nope.  Winsome white jersey sundress with Chinoiserie florals and drop waist – super comfy, super cool and as un-girlie as a sundress can be?  Nope.  Myriad skorts, sporty yet feminine?  Nope.  Nope.  Double Nope.  I could go on and on – I have cornered the market on comfortable, adorable, tomboy-appropriate clothes, and for a while, it was working.  But now she’s pushing further and I find myself pushing back.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m not a girlie girl.  I’m pretty low maintenance and although I love clothes and shoes and most of all BOOTS, I tend to end up in a bit of a uniform:  tanks, skirts and flipflops for summer; jeans, thermals and boots for winter.  But I’m all about mixing it up.  High, low.  Girlie, butch.  Dressy, casual.  Ornate, simplistic.  Comfortable, but never too comfortable.  Like any Mama worth her beans, I am willing to suffer (a little bit) for beauty.  

This past spring on Supergirl’s picture day, I experienced the first gusts of these foul winds of change.  I was not attempting to put her into a frock of any sort (like all the other girls at her poshy posh preschool), in fact, I don’t like fancy frilly frivolous frocks.  My girls don’t even wear Easter dresses on Easter!  I was simply trying to get her out of her cargo pants for one day, so she wouldn’t look so danger-grrrrl – so street urchin chic in her picture.  All hell broke loose when I tried to cajole her into wearing a cute t-shirt and a comfy black Hardtail skirt.  This skirt is genius.  It’s tough looking and then it kicks it up with some ruffles . . . but tough ruffles.  She looked like herself – funky and unfussy, but she didn’t see it that way and ended up in a full fledged head under the pillow heavy drama weep fest.  I felt terrible, but it had gone too far for me to cave in.  Something had happened over the winter, right under my nose but unbeknownst to me:  Supergirl had gone uncontrovertably, irrevokably, tomboy on me.  Which is a nice way of saying that she’s dressing really really butch.  

Honestly, I love that she spends 30% of her day upside down and the other 70% swinging, biking, or kicking a soccer ball.  I love that she never went princessy on me.  That she scoffed at Barbie commercials and muttered: “that’s so lame” out of the side of her mouth with the disdainful nonchalance of a fourteen year old boy.  

Sure, part of me wants to yell (and did, in fact yell in a shamefully, hysterical falsetto): “you are so lucky you don’t have an Edina mom!  You are so lucky I don’t force you to wear dresses and ribbons everyday!”  Here’s the thing:  I feel like the leeway I give her to wear what she wants on a daily basis should be repaid with a reasonable degree of acquiescence when I do ask her to pull herself together in a different way.  Like on picture day.  

Or when our lovely neighbors, Red Vogue and Salt and Pepper Polymath, invited us over for dinner.  Supergirl is seriously like best friends with RV and SPP (together, the Onions, because the more you get to know them, the more there is to know, layers and layers of stories and talents, personality quirks and humor, easy, effortless kindness and deeply interesting loveliness.)  I simply wished to impart to Supergirl that it is common courtesy to make a bit of an effort when someone has been kind enough to welcome you into their home and cook for you with love.  That night was round two of our battle and I lost . . . big time.  Not only did she not wear a sundress (she was actually willing to miss out on root beer floats to prove her point), she went home and put on a pair of maple syrup stained mismatched boy pajamas half way through dinner.  Boy did she show me.  

And then I start to wonder: what is my problem with this?  Why do I care?  What does it say about me that this is even an issue?  Do I worry that how she dresses reflects on me?  Do I worry that this isn’t just a passing phase?  And what if it isn’t?  What’s wrong with dressing like a man?  Oh, who am I kidding????  A whole fucking hell of a lot!!!  Did I let this go too far?  Will she ever wear a skirt again?  And as with all my angst and worry, I quickly veer into crazy-talk quasi-prayer mode:  God, if she’s a lesbian, please let her be a lipstick lesbian so we can at least enjoy shopping together!!!

And then that little Frenchman with the butter soft leather kid gloves gives me a little slap slap slap and I come to my senses and realize this:  Supergirl is perfect the way she is and I would be infinitely more horrified if she wanted to teeter around in plastic platform Cinderella shoes.  She’s on the move and she runs with a pack of wild boys who have a few years on her.  She needs to be swift and cool to hang, or she will be left in the dust.  And so she has figured out what she needs for right now.  She plays up, she plays hard, and she plays to win.  If she needs armor for this, more power to her – at least she’s in the game. 

I just need to chill the hell out.

As for Devil Baby, you’ll be seeing her in nothing but skirts and sundresses every live long day until such time as she decides otherwise.  Maybe, just maybe, she’ll turn out to be my girlie girl.

I had a great day.  My long time sitter agreed to stand in my flip flops so I could go do my thing for a few hours.  After procuring face paint from my neighbor at 8:30 in the morning and drawing a fairly realistic Argentina flag on Saint James’ cheek for soccer camp, getting everyone fed and sunscreened and dressed for the day, I peeled off in my trusty minivan hoping to make it to yoga on time.  The irony of driving like a crazed Indy-500 wannabe to get to yoga is not lost on me.  Nevertheless, I made it (after being away for far too long) and had a beautiful class with my favorite teacher, Sydney.  Sigh.  I love yoga.  And the day just kept getting better.

I went to see  Sex in the City by myself.  My ultimate, all time favorite, guilty pleasure is to see movies alone in the middle of the day.  When I was working, I would hop on to moviefone.com, grab my blackberry and bust a move for a matinee three or four times a year.  In Boston, it involved taking the T to Harvard Square, but my clandestine cinematic affairs got ridiculously easy when they put those theaters in Block E.  Uugh.  Don’t get me started on Block E though, because I will get all hot and bothered, start shaking my finger and enumerating everything that is wrong with America and its deep seeded cultural propensity for pandering to the least common denominator in everything from cuisine to politics to architecture to entertainment.  For those who don’t live here, Block E used to be a perfectly nice parking lot filled with perfectly nice drug dealers and crack whores.  Right across from City Center, the most godawful mall in this great land, Block E provided a pleasant open black top for loitering, parking cars, cutting through to Toby’s and other assorted shady dealings.  Does anyone besides me remember Toby’s?  Great bar, great food, humongous genius chef who busted out some of the most delicious and spicy Asian-inspired green beans and equally delicious and spicy Buffalo Chicken Sandwiches – phenomenal burgers too.  The place was dark and clubby, civilized, authentic, lived in, plush and tobacco stained, the way any good watering hole worth its salt should be.  Anyway, something happened to Toby, Toby’s closed, and some of the most obtuse and talentless hacks in the history of this city were put in charge of redeveloping the block which resulted in the second most godawful mall in the land.  Block E is a depressing, impenetrable monolith, the architectural equivalent of an insipid, obese, bastard devoid of any charm or smarts and it is filled with crappy businesses seemingly handpicked to appeal to insipid, obese, bastards.  The smell alone of Cold Stone Creamery makes me want to barf.  But I digress.  I was supposed to be thinking happy thoughts.  

So after yoga I hightailed it over to Edina for the 11:00 show.  I had to pee and was so gratified to see that the movie theater had installed Dyson Airblade hand dryers – the kind Ed Begley, Jr. put in his house, to his wife’s consternation.  They use less energy than those pathetic old dryers and it’s a fait accompli in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.  Love these things.  I’m always torn in public restrooms because I am equal parts squeamish, impatient, and concerned about our environment . . . so how to dry my hands. Usually I just run them through my hair as I ninja my way out, trying not to touch anything.  So if I’m not mistaken, these super fancy hand dryers are the brainchild of that dashing British guy who invented those yellow vacuum cleaners with more suction.  This cute man is doing God’s work, if you ask me – keeping people from slowly going insane as they pass their vacuum over the same cheerio over and over.  

And get this!  When I purchased my popcorn and drink, I was surprised and delighted to learn that the butter is self-serve!  Like I said, the day just kept getting better!  Woooh, baby!  Except that it’s hard to get the butter into the middle of the bag with out drenching the top . . .  much better to have a concession stand worker with a good work ethic fill the bag half-way, squirt butter, fill it the rest of the way and squirt again.  I fully admit these sound like the musings of an insipid, obese, American bastard.

Nevertheless, as I settled into my seat in a nearly empty theater with my buttered popcorn and my diet coke, I felt like Pee Wee Herman at a skin flick.  The most delicious combination of guilty and contented.  A tall, stiff drink of contentment with a twist of guilt.  And then, and then . . . the movie started and I just about wept.  The clothes are nothing short of SPECTACULAR.  Wardrobe has taken everything they were doing right with the show and made it even better and bigger, befitting the celluloid screen.  There is a scene where Carrie is trying on wedding dresses for a Vogue shoot and, oh sweet mother, do they pull out the big guns: Wang, Carolina Herrera, Lacroix, Lanvin, Dior, Oscar de la Renta and the topper, an edgy, alarming, and drop dead sophisticated Vivienne Westwood (which was not my favorite, but would have been my pick for Carrie too).  Each confection just gets better and better . . . the drama mounting . . . the luxe gorgeousness washing over you in waves of tulle and organza and silk, each dress unique and so beautifully conceived and executed.  And it was like this the whole entire movie.  I was delirious!  It’s like fashionista porn.  A sartorial fantasy beyond my wildest imagination.  And there was this studded black belt that kept popping up – très rocker chic – très my cup of tea.

Not to be a blowhard poo-pooer, but I thought the movie itself was flawed in that it hinged on the cowardice of man that was so profound, so unforgivable, that it almost seemed unbelievable.  He was a mouse, not a man, and it was an  unequivocal deal breaker, through and through.  Forgiveness, redemption, love . . .  the movie  dealt with all the themes you’d expect to see in a romantic comedy, no real surprises.  The hanger was ordinary, but the threads hanging on it were thoroughly extraordinary, transporting, satisfying and worth every second and penny.  And not for nothing, the movie displays some true blue girl-friendship and loyalty and that is always wonderful to see.  Especially when the girlfriends are running around in astonishingly beautiful fur wraps, polka dot dresses, and insane white boots, both tall and short.  Oh, Dorothy, I need to see it again!

And when I got out of the movie it was two o’clock.  I thought about getting a pedicure, but really, I was completely sated.  I was ready to go home and hang with my kids.  I was ready to leave behind the Manolos and slip back into my flip flops.