Happy Feet?

Trainers (so British) sounds better than athletic shoes (no ring to that) or running shoes (too much work) or tennis shoes (too specific) or sneakers (too sneaky) or gym shoes (those things moldering in your school locker). I still like to call them sneakers but hate the thought of them with street wear. Karl Lagerfeld disagrees. His models wore sneakers with dresses and gowns on the Paris runway. Marc Jacobs thinks they look fetching with a tinfoil coat. You know once capital D designers lace up their seal of approval, we think we should follow. Anna Wintour— you first.

And who doesn't love comfortable shoes? I was wise to explore Pompeii in sneakers rather than patent leather ballet slippers. There was no one to judge but other similarly shod tourists. However I don't see the reason for this look with real clothes in real life.

The history of canvas top/rubber sole shoes is quite interesting. The Liverpool Rubber Company first produced them to be worn on the sand in the 1830s. Who knew? They earned the nickname "plimsolls" as the colored horizontal band of rubber that joined canvas to sole resembled the Plimsoll line on a ship's hull. If you walked into water that reached above that line, your foot would get wet. The more leisure time, as time went on, the more this comfortable, affordable shoe adapted to various sports: tennis, croquet, basketball, running, etc.

One of these is the Plimsoll line

Sneakers crept onto the public streets in the mid 1980's Working Girl era. I would very much like to forget the sight of young women in suits energetically maneuvering New York City streets. They would stop to switch shoes outside their office buildings, balancing on one foot like so many uniformed storks.

Melanie Griffith in "Working Girl"

Granted there are some very cute sneakers— reptile or leopard patterned, with touches of gold or interesting hardware, in bright colors or covered in fun graphics. But is this footwear meant to be worn seriously with real clothes?

Here's my biggest concern. The Number One Don't Do This on the list for WOACAs (Women Of A Certain Age) is No Sneakers. Unless you are wearing exercise gear (and I love to see us chickadees in fitness mode) or are a tourist who would be crazy not to, sneakers will stamp you o-l-d before you can lace them up. That's actually a shame. Who else but WOACAs deserve a comfy shoe?  After decades of use— let alone years of abuse (tottering in heels) and non-support (flopping in sandals)— our tootsies would be thankful.

The only woman, in my opinion, who has earned the right to wear sneakers with her dress-up street clothes is this one:

And even she doesn't

Now is Not the Winter of Our Discontent

It happens every year about this time. The holidays are done. Spring is around no corner that I can see— weeds greening in my grass don't count. The cardigans need pilling. The legs haven't seen daylight since the end of daylight savings time. A trip to the shops for a little boost? No luck. They are all begging and pleading with us to take away their tired sequins and neglected brocades. "Fifty percent off sale!" But who needs black velvet when my fashion soul is black as night already?

Perhaps I exaggerate about the latter, but this really is a strange time of year. What you bought with such enthusiasm in fall is either worn out or didn't work out. It's too early to think about Summer, and Spring is less about buying clothes than shedding layers.

What to do? What to do?

Your left brain will suggest winter is a great time to take a hard look at "intimates"— your socks and bras and panties and tights and slips and such. Or your basic white and black t-shirts or button-downs. White turns yellow; black fades to grey over time and through the wash. I'm settling down for a long winter's nap, how about you?

Your right brain will have you planning vacations to exotic locales or at the very least making note of spring's hot fashion trends: pleats, embroidered flowers, boxy silhouettes, forties' style dresses, schoolgirl looks, transparent fabrics, longer skirt lengths, wearable art.... dream, dream, dream.

Wake up, Little Susie. Such activities are no substitute for the first hint of a real, lasting Spring, the kind that has you throwing off your coat at lunch.

Wake up, fashion moguls of the world and INVENT a reason for us to get excited. Instead of going in one swoop from offering long sleeved turtlenecks to short sleeve t-shirts, give us jerseys in pretty colors with necklines, not scoops. Bring back the vest (it gets so little fashion respect). Is there nothing between hunter green corduroy and neon pink stretch in the pants department?

Can we have another season? Not "resort"; that only incurs envy in those of us who don't partake. Why not call it "Sprinter" or "Wing"? Those certainly call to mind flights of fashion fancy.

Don't forget about us as you count your losses at the end of the fiscal year or cheer a great one. This is a new year, and we want something new!

This is a Joke, Right?

I nearly laughed myself silly last night. The January fashion magazines are so thin I figured I could gobble them up in one sitting. What makes a magazine thin (for the most part) is a lack of ads. January is notorious for no ads to be had. What ads there were, were hysterical.

First off came Marc Jacobs. This was worth pointing out to the husband, although it was preaching to the choir. He thinks fashion is pretty silly anyways, although he is nothing but sweet when it comes to my obsession. Does Marc really think we are going to tie our hair to our necks, don clunky trainers and throw on a glitter trash bag? I told the husband to tie me down if he ever sees me heading out the door in that get-up.

Who the heck is Marc kidding? Am I in on the joke, or is the joke on me? Granted there has been some fashion that I said I would never wear. I've learned to never say never. Pleated pants come back as the world turns. Shoulder pads are waiting in the dresser drawers. What the heck?

If it isn't the fashion it is the ads themselves. Alexander Wang's shoe ad is a mystery that I care not to solve. Chanel's mustachioed model is an homage to... whom? Galliano? The whole thing has me flummoxed and not in a good way.

Okay, okay. I do have a certain fondness for Dolce & Gabbana's ad campaign with the donnas and their lovely boys, although one of them does appear to be a priest. This may not be as far afield as you think. Last summer in Italy I discovered that priests can be models as well.

Priests of Italy 2014 calender; Father September is my fave

Happy Birthday, Francoise Hardy

Francoise Hardy turns 70 today, January 17. Before we go further, here is a recent picture:

The woman is still gorgeous. And ambiguous. And oh so, well, French.

Has there ever been a time when Francoise Hardy was not a fashion icon? In fact was she ever anything else? The answer is yes and no. Americans who have heard of her have mostly never heard her, myself included. Yet she is one reason I chose to take French in 10th grade— so I could read about Francoise Hardy in French "Elle", purchased whenever I had the five bucks* from Schroeder's Bookstore and Foreign Newsstand in Cleveland, Ohio.

Perhaps my French wasn't up to it, but I didn't learn a lot. I loved looking at pictures though. She was impossibly tall and slim, with thick straight hair and strong features devoid of (much) makeup. The camera adored her. She reciprocated.

Never looked that good in a trenchcoat,
though I tried

Ditto the motorcycle jacket

Francoise Hardy began recording in 1962, the heyday of French New Wave cinema and the French influence on pop culture (aka pre British invasion). While her music was a hit in France, she never caught fire in America. She has a clear, soulful voice. If you go to:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gXWqz5qWYEw

you will recognize "Les Temps de L'Amour". You've probably heard it a thousand times and can't remember where.

Even reading in English I can't seem to find out much. She didn't have a movie career— a few cameo appearances, that's all. Some fashion shoots. She is evidently a shy person who doesn't relish the spotlight. Nevertheless she still performs and records.

Longtime companion/husband/fellow performer
Jacques Dutronc

The Lovely Boutique Where I Work has anointed Francoise Hardy their inspiration for Spring 2014. Yes that means more nautical stripes, moto jackets and '60s silhouettes. And Francoise Hardy envy.

* $5 in 1962 money = $38 today

Men We Love: Toni Servillo

I saw "The Great Beauty", but I watched Toni Servillo. The film has received a slew of awards nods; the buzz is practically a din. As expected the movie itself is reminiscent of "La Dolce Vita" and "8 1/2" with a little "Last Year at Marienbad" for good measure. But in color.

I won't pretend I understood it. Perhaps I was distracted by... Toni Servillo. His character, Jep, is an erudite 65-year-old with the most impeccable fashion sense since Robert Redford got all pastel for his turn in "The Great Gatsby".

Jep doesn't just wear clothes well, he inhabits them. You know the expression about being comfortable in one's skin? He is that comfortable in his skin plus its layer of clothing. The man looks elegant in a rumpled dress shirt and boxers (don't ask). His principal accessories are a well-worn face and slicked-back, little-too-long, many shades of gray hair. Spoiler alert since this could be discussed as to its deeper meaning: towards the end of the movie you see a glimpse of his corset.

I may just be personally susceptible, but Italian men of a certain age do have a certain something. Mary Martin thought so about Ezio Pinza in "South Pacific. Gianni di Gregorio shuffled into my heart after "Mid August Lunch". Tony Bennett got better with age (and can sing too).

Ezio

Gianni

Tony

Take note, Anthony Bourdain. You may not be Italian, but you could look this good in a few years.

Nowhere to Wear

Ready for take-off

Why do we keep buying clothes for occasions we don't have, places we don't go and people we aren't? Or, at least, why do I?

My New Year's resolution not to make (because I knew I wouldn't keep it) was "buy less clothes". It was kind of a joke, because I really do buy less these days. The reason is a combination of no room/ no place/ no interest.

I literally have no room to hang or stash anything. We live with a finite amount of closet space. Our dressers have not grown more drawers. The attic, with visions of squirrels chomping away on sweaters, is not an option. I cull and give things away regularly resulting in no more space, just a box of empty hangers— to store.

Do I have no place to go? Of course I go places. I barely have time to stay home and clean out a closet. But do I go to the opera? Gallery openings? Caribbean cruises? Charity balls? No, no and nope. But I have the clothes for them.

I have taken too close to heart my mother's philosophy that if you buy that party dress, you will have a party to attend. Or maybe it was more like "be prepared". It seems to me she was always prepared, but it was because her clothes did double and triple duty and she was a whiz with accessories.

Nevertheless, when I see something that has me adrenalized I can justify a "maybe" event to buy it. It's tough, but the right brain does step in and slap my hand before it reaches the credit card. What I can't do is stop looking. Not that I am comparing myself to the elderly man with an eye for pretty young girls, but "I'm not dead yet".

Sad but true that I have no interest in so much of what I see. Maybe I've been around fashion too long, but it feels like I've seen it all, and this mash up of trends— stripes with lace with leather and a peplum all on the same garment— has got to end. I'm not waiting for something original to appear; I'm actively looking for it, and it isn't there. So what has always been a (little bit of a guilty) pleasure— shopping— is more than a little frustrating. I can't even find something to tell myself not to buy!

In Living Color

And I have no idea who they are

This photo struck me. I saved it, with no intent in mind. Now I know why. These gals are sassy, full of life, relaxed, enjoying the moment and look gorgeous. I don't wish to glamorize war— far from it— but sometimes we forget that any generation older than our own could not possibly have the same hopes, wishes, dreams or resemble us in any way. That's especially true of the WWII era, ingrained in our minds in black and white, as if lifted off the pages of Life magazine.

All our family photos are black and white as were most Hollywood movies— and those that weren't were in such startling shades of Technicolor that they became their own reality. WWII was so long considered black and white that Steven Spielberg shot "Saving Private Ryan" in as muted a color palette as possible so as not to jar our responses. In recent years the History Channel has shown footage tagged "World War II in Color". Color film was hard to get, unstable and expensive to process, but the images in color of young men jolt you into realizing this could have been my boyfriend/husband/son. The lasses above are not in color, of course, but they still manage to strike the chord Hey, that could have been a friend/a neighbor/a relative/me.

The following "rare photos of women in WWII" were obviously shot as a public service effort. The models —though no doubt chosen for being attractive— are not pros. Doesn't the color bring them to life? And isn't it a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same?

The iconic Rosie the Riveter poster was inspired by a (now lost to history) photo of a real woman, Geraldine Hoff Doyle. She was working at a factory in Inkster, Michigan, when the photo was taken that inspired the poster's artist, J. Howard Miller. Although the poster has been an icon for what a working woman can do, Geraldine quit her job at the war factory shortly after the photo shoot on account of how dangerous it was. Oh yes, they were human too.

Geraldine the Riveter

Life of Pie

Life is just a bowl of cherries. What does that really mean? It sounds happy-go-lucky and carefree, but eating cherries can be dangerous. What about pits???? It was the pits... Were they the culprit? Easy as pie. C'mon, pie isn't easy... at least not until Pillsbury Refrigerated Piecrust.

Can you see where I'm going? Sometimes we have an excuse for everything— for not doing what we want to do (the consequences!!!) or what we should do (the effort!!!). All year long we battle with our inner selves— should we or shouldn't we? It's called over-thinking. It's called guilt. Failure is not an option, so we fail to move. Perfection is unattainable, but that seems the only goal.

I recently enjoyed a day in the country with a friend. We headed to a small (population 90) Texas town whose lone restaurant has a plus-sized reputation for serving the best pie around. While waiting for our table, we walked around the mini town square and came across a boutique called "It Fits". Someone surely chuckled when she thought of that one. I can barely think of a better name. From a peek inside there were relaxed clothes in happy colors and oodles of accessories.

Two women were lazily rocking on the front porch. "You need to eat some pie and come back", one woman called out.

So maybe 2014 should be about having cherries without pits in a nice slice of ready-made pie. Stylish pie too. That's a la mode, you know.

Happy New Year!

O Pioneers!

Happy year end!
Looking back before looking forward—

I've come to the conclusion that I— and many of my contemporaries— are pioneers in the Art of Modern Aging. That's aging in the modern age in a modern way. We are the very first who "do not go gentle into that dark night" by disappearing into the wordwork. When else have there been so many women— maybe not all famous but certainly outspoken and well spoken— who say, "Hey, I want to look good for me and because it makes me feel good— about myself and my place in the world"?

We are more accepting at our age of everyone's individuality and imperfections. We are generous with our time and knowledge. We aren't selfish; we want to "pass it on". It would make me happy to save one younger woman from needlessly fretting about what she lacks. We are fully aware the road ends somewhere, and we can't know when. That won't stop us.

Look at the attention being paid to women OACA.* The Fabulous Fashionistas. The celebrity sites screaming "Can you believe she's a grandma?" Times have changed, y'all. Always hated the term Baby Boomers. But I like Forever Bloomers.

*Of a Certain Age

Selling Out: an Apology

For one brief moment in time I decided to see what this blog would be like with ads. I apologize to anyone who spotted a totally irrelevant ad on my site last night between the hours of 12AM and now.

I've long wondered how anyone makes money writing a blog. Not that it is the goal of course. But how nice would it be to write what I like, have you read it and get a check in the mail? Wait a minute, sister...

Not being a tech person my eyes may have glazed over reading the small print on the sign-up page, but that one ad brought me back to my senses. Anything I click on the internet will be fodder! Don't worry— this was nothing x-rated, just boring and having nothing to do with fashion, beauty or how I look at the world.

As a big fat holiday treat I bought myself "Diana Vreeland Memos". Reading is like having a conversation with her. They are delightful, humorous, wacky and inspiring— with no ads.

Can I aspire to such greatness? Now that the ads are gone who knows...

Here's Looking at You, Kid

One of the best Christmas presents I ever received was from the aunt nobody on one side of the family liked, the wife of my uncle, my father's brother. At the time there was comment that the gift was Not Appropriate for a nine-year-old. I loved it from the get-go. I felt older, smarter and accepted as a person in my own right (at least by this aunt).

What was the gift? A Revlon manicure set— 4 bottles of "stuff" (cuticle remover, base coat, pink nail polish and topcoat)— tools attached with elastic bands to the pink plasticized interior of the blue suede case— orange stick, emery boards, cuticle scissors, nail buffer— bottle of nail polish remover and the all-important booklet: How to Give Yourself a Manicure.

These were not "kiddie cosmetics"— make-believe items like the candy pills in the play doctor kits. They were not even the genuine but benign toiletries called "Little Lady". This was the real deal— Revlon! They advertised in my sister's "Seventeen" and my mother's "Ladies Home Journal"! I was one of them now.

I made a great ritual of doing my nails in my room, feeling all the while that I was engaging in a practice I was perhaps not yet entitled to. I soaked in warm sudsy water, using one of my mother's cut glass bowls. I accidentally lifted the finish off a corner of the nightstand ("Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase" covered that). And I kept at it till the carrying case turned shabby and most of the original pieces had been lost or used up.

I practically never saw that aunt except at Christmas. It wasn't like I could show off how much I loved her present, but I thought of her with every snip and buff. I also learned a lesson I would like to share with you if you have gifts to give daughters, nieces, granddaughters or the little girl down the street.

Think UP. Get them something that just might be "too old" for them. Pretty stationery and a ballpoint pen for a five-year-old just learning to write. Bookplates with her name imprinted and a hard bound copy of a classic. A bath sponge and bubble bath (the kind that comes in a champagne bottle— really). Genuine jewelry that has to be taken care of (as simple as a cultured pearl on a thin gold chain). Honor the woman she will become. Because while we are all still little girls, we always wanted to be grown-ups too.

Is the Half Tuck Half Baked?

The is-it-or-isn't-it intentional half-tuck

About two years ago a new look took the world by storm (ok I exaggerate). It snuck up on us on the person of David Beckham, who must have done it deliberately, right? Since then the boys passed it on to the girls who passed it on to J. Crew and now it's (pardon the pun) out there.

The looks-good-on-you-
David-Beckham half-tuck

Believe it or not the half-tuck has variations:
Front side half-tuck
Back side half-tuck connected to front side half-tuck
Solo back side half-tuck
Back full-tuck
Front full-tuck 
The Justin Tuck (no that's football, sorry)

No one is quite sure whether it's a Good Thing. It is, however, here.

The J. Crew variations

Do I hate it? Not really. It makes feel hip for a woman OACA*. Interesting, depending on the tuck, it can hide a flabby front or unlovely backside. It makes me think I'm doing Relaxed Chic as simply comfortable is not a look I usually embrace. It makes me smile.

The designer half-tuck—
Dries van Noten

* that's Of A Certain Age, of course

Spell-check

Lest you think there are not fashions in names, scan this list of the five most popular girls' names for the past 100 years or so:

1913: Mary, Helen, Dorothy, Margaret, Ruth
1923: Mary, Dorothy, Helen, Betty, Margaret
1933: Mary, Betty, Barbara, Dorothy, Joan
1943: Mary, Barbara, Patricia, Linda, Carol
1953: Mary, Linda, Deborah, Patricia, Susan
1963: Lisa, Mary, Susan, Karen, Linda
1973: Jennifer, Amy, Michelle, Kimberly, Lisa
1983: Jennifer, Jessica, Amanda, Ashley, Sarah
1993: Jessica, Ashley, Sarah, Samantha, Emily
2003: Emily, Emma, Madison, Hannah, Olivia
2012: Sophia, Emma, Isabella, Olivia, Ava

Funny, the current crop sound more old-fashioned than the ones from 1913. We have "Love Story" to thank for Jennifer, the Beatles for Michelle and a children's book mouse for Olivia. Isabella? Ava? Anyone's guess.

As an act of full disclosure, I was named Michelle the same year Paul McCartney was born so cannot blame the Beatles. You would think the years I spent listed as a boy on school rosters would have given pause to naming our son Sasha, but it did not. Despite his (blessedly) brief childhood nickname of Sausage and being told more than once so-and-so had a Russian wolfhound named Sasha, I still insist Sasha is a fine name.

Sasha meets Sasha 1981

I have known people with unusual names. They stand out in part on account of them. The original Sasha was one such man. I've known two females named Gordon, a Durell, a Mirenchu and a Napoleon. The oddball name takes a while to remember but you tend not to forget that person.

Where I have a problem is when parents decide to get all creative with fairly garden variety names. They sound the same but...
Cyndy,
Emmalee
Jazzmyn
Kaytlynn
Megyn
Rylee

The moment a baby's name is recorded for the first time the paper trail begins— birth certificate, social security card, school records, driver's license, passport, employment records, bank accounts, etc. All are opportunities to misspell that name. Depending on the nature of the matter (overdue library book or bad credit rating), serious consequences may ensue.

There has long been a gentle rivalry between one-l and two-l Michelles. Neither is wrong, but those Beatles did spell it with two ls. That would seem to end speculation which is right. Most holders of alternate spellings are good natured. Frances puts up with the masculine Francis, Katie with Katy and Claire with Clare.

If you're calling her Anita but spelling it Ahneetah do not expect than anyone will follow suit. Expect instead that Ahneetah will be very tolerant, grow a thick skin or require years of therapy.

5 Things You Should Know by Now

Clara Bow did it...

You should know how to use a lip brush.

Once you do you'll never just smoosh on lipstick again, at least not when you are consciously "making up". I'll bet your lips do not match from right to left side. Skill with the brush allows you to even them out, get to the last of your lipstick and continue the color all the way into the corners of your lips. 

Lovely to look at, delightful to sew...

You should know how to sew on a button.
I can't believe any woman would admit she can't sew on a button, but I've heard it many times at the Lovely Boutique Where I Work. For shame! That's just lame. However there really is a technique for doing it that you should have mastered. If you're just starting out ask your mother or your grandmother to teach you. If you wish to learn in a more clandestine manner go here:

www.wikihow.com/Sew-a-Button
(You will have to cut and paste this link)

You should know how to tie a necktie.
I was pretty proud to learn how to tie a necktie. It's kind of a fun, sexy thing to do for a guy, and it's handy to finish off that Annie Hall look yourself without needing one. Want help? Ask your dad or your guy or follow the chart. I'm not sure why one might wish a full Windsor over a Half Windsor, but this seems fine for ladylike necks.

Good enough for the Duke of...

You should know your (approximate) equivalent size in jeans/pants.
Although no one cuts the same it does help to know the conversion of your usual size into jeanspeak.

00 = 24

0 = 25

2 = 26

4 = 27

6 = 28

8 = 29

10 = 30

12 = 31

14 = 32

Your size is hiding in plain sight

You should know how to say "no".
As in "no I don't look good in it" or "no I don't need it" or "no I am not going to just keep it anyways".
Laziness, embarrassment, disappointment can keep you from doing the right thing, and that's saying "no".

Insert your name here