I recently broke my vow of abstinence…vis a vis shopping that is, to spend a few ducats at the exquisite Tracy Reese boutique down on Hudson Street. It’s a light filled oasis of calm, civility and femininity in the midst of the city’s bustle. The entire boutique invites one to linger and savor the surrounding beauty. Crystal chandeliers dangle above the racks of exquisitely displayed floral print dresses and gossamer gowns. The most delightful surprise of all (other than the hand painted Ladies Room) was the price point. Tracy has put the “R” in reasonable retail. I emerged with two dresses, a pair of uber chic skinny jeans and two light as clouds summer cotton sweaters without having dipped into my retirement fund. Because of Tracy, ten years from now I won’t need to announce to my daughter “Sorry, sweetie, no private college for you. But don’t you love Mommy’s couture wardrobe?” Tracy’s styles are feminine, modern and timeless, suitable for young professional women in their twenties and the peri-menopausal like yours truly. I bought a beautifully constructed brown and cream sleeveless shift Jackie O would proudly have sported on the cobblestone streets of Capri that has instantly become my summer uniform. Best of all is the name of the collection “Plenty.” It reminded me to count my blessings!
If those great 18th Century Satirists, Voltaire and Jonathan Swift were alive today, they would have written “The Book of Mormon.” It is truly the 21st Century’s answer to that masterpiece, “Candide.” Its brilliance lies in the fact that it deals in the truth, the truth of a certain “holy book,” the political truths of rampant AIDS and female genital mutilation in Africa and throws it all together in a completely irreverent musical send up of every musical from the Sound of Music to the Lion King. They offend all of us and therefore none of us. Run don’t walk to see this piece. Through “gut wrenching” (literally) laughter it will help you process all the absurdities and horrors of our current world.
Ladies and Gentlemen, as if the presence of Palin, Mere were not enough to drive us to live out our days on a deserted island, we now have to hear about the vicissitudes in the life of that twinkle toed baby mama, Palin, Fille, aka Bristol. Like that great mind of our ages before her, Snookie, BP (do those initials ring a bell?) has published a memoir of her experiences to date. (Nota Bene: She’s twenty, if memory serves.) This single mom is criss crossing the country talking about her re-newed vow of abstinence till marriage (don’t we all love a born-again virgin?) and her plastic surgery. In a country of nearly ten percent unemployment, a fifty percent high school drop out rate and nearly catastrophic weather conditions, I’m so glad we are putting the em-phasis on the right sy-llable. One realizes the girl is merely trying, and her son is admittedly adorable but could the media please give the floor to someone who is ACTUALLY TRYING TO IMPROVE THE LOT OF OTHERS?
Now Western Civilization is truly imperiled, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are approaching at a break neck gallop. With all the issues facing humanity: oil spills, floods in Pakistan, rape as a weapon of warfare (notably these days in Africa,) the AIDS pandemic, the continuing economic slump we have to hear about BRISTOL PALIN’S T.V. MAKEOVER!!!!! I feel as though I have in fact entered the twilight zone. A de facto BABY MAMA is now a nationwide celebrity. God bless the poor girl, she did what many of us did as teens: she fell in love with a cad. That said, must we put her on the cover of national publications for the simple act of graduating high school (if this doesn’t epitomize Affirmative Action, I don’t know what does). The week that happened, I attended a luncheon hosted by Ms. Magazine at which we heard about TRUE YOUNG WOMEN OF ACCOMPLISHMENT, among them, a Native American woman who had also been a teen mum but used her experience to help other economically CHALLENGED young women find a way out of poverty and the vicious cycle of unwed motherhood. As I sat listening to her tale that afternoon, I wondered when any one of our national news or entertainment magazines would put this woman on its cover. Perhaps it’s up to us, the consumers, to vote with our pocket books and remote controls. Let’s let the media companies know we want quality not so called “reality.”
Friends, I had the great good fortune of breakfasting at the Beverly Hills Hotel the other day, and the great misfortune of sharing a counter with one, Levi Johnston (sp?) aka B Palin’s ”baby daddy.” Friends, how is it possible that this man is now soaring towards reality world stardom, the toast of talk shows when his accomplishments include: impregnating and failing to marry a girl under twenty, NOT graduating from college and knocking back the brewskis? Opponents of affirmative action should take note. Is this not the poster boy for undeserved privilege and riches? I ask you!!! Can we not as a public revolt against the lionization of mediocrity? Nay, plain base trashiness? Is this REALLY the message we want to send our youth: do nothing but knock up the daughter of the politically prominent and you will reap rewards? Help, someone!!!! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am praying daily for the restoration of sanity, and spending even more time reading. Let me shore up my own grey matter since we seem to want to throw kerosene and a flame on the American public’s. They deserve far better. Let’e find a way to oust the “deplorables” and give it to them !!! People unite, take back the night!!!! Make America safe for intelligent thought!!!
Dear Friends,
Today we mourn the passing of one the world’s great ladies, great performers, and great soldiers in the war for equality between the so-called races: Ms. Lena Horne. I had the privilege of knowing Ms. Horne all my life because she and my mother were friends and worked together in two musicals (Jamaica, in 1957, and the ill fated Pal Joey ‘78 at the Ahmanson in Los Angeles.) I think I went to see “The Lady and her Music” about a dozen times. Lena epitomized not only beauty, but also the fierce determination to have all people recognized as having been created equal. In spite of all the “slings and arrows” leveled at her by “outrageous fortune” (blatant discrimination, the death of a child to name only two,) she never played the victim. In her performances and her political activism, she was completely and utterly fearless. As we go through our days, blithely enjoying rights for which she and so many others made enormous sacrifices, let us take full advantage and fill the “unforgiving minute” with “sixty seconds worth of distance run.” Let’s do it with passion, let’s do it with joy, for Lena. And now, I must leave the house and get to the library. Blank pages await!!!!
Watching the media coverage of the Tiger Woods “scandal,” I sometimes have to consult my calendar to see if I am indeed living in a twenty first century democracy, or if the clock has been turned back to the Puritan run Massachusetts Bay Colony of my paternal forebears, or Inquisition era Spain with its auto da fes, i.e. public burnings of heretics and other “unrepentant sinners.”
How many times is Mr. Woods going to be asked to perform the grand guignol of a public mea culpa for transgressions that effectively hurt and concern no one but his wife and children? It is to them, not to us that he owes explanations, abject apologies, and acts of atonement. He was certainly prolific in his exploits, and apparently employed the same selection code for his playmates as a restricted country club does for membership: women of color need not apply. (I have filed a formal complaint with the NAAAAB, the National Association for the Advancement of African American Bimbos to protest our blatant lack of representation in ANY of the current sex scandals from Eliot Spitzer to Tikki Barber. Not even Jesse James gave a chance to a tramp stamp covered cutie of a darker hue. What up, guys? ) In the conduct of his affairs, Mr. Woods showed a crack addict’s lack of judgment, and very poor taste, but should we forever condemn him to the public stocks for pillorying?
In this country, to my knowledge, adultery is not a crime punishable by stoning (isn’t that the purview of Muslim theocracies misinterpreting Sharia?) Rampant extramarital sex has pervaded the world of professional sports since time immemorial, yes, even the “gentlemanly sport” of golf. There are iconic figures whose Don Juanesque exploits leave Tiger’s in the sand trap. These lotharios just had the good fortune not to experience their career peaks in the era of the insatiable beast: the 24 hour tabloid press.
After his first public apology, Mr. Woods was lambasted for “contrition deficiency” and for refusing to take questions. What, pray tell, did his inquisitors plan to ask that they felt the public had a right, nay, a vital need to know? His favorite IHOP dish, other than superannuated waitresses? Rachel Uchitel’s views on Nuclear Non Proliferation and the Arab/Israeli conflict? Adding to the absurdity, his first apology coincided with the release of a film by the director and convicted statutory rapist, Roman Polanski. Where was the outrage over this man’s continued evasion of the law twenty odd years after he drugged and sodomized a thirteen-year old girl? Is it because his victim remains faceless? Somehow, in Mr. Polanski’s case, the press was able to make the distinction between his work and his personal life (which arguably ceased to be “personal” when he faced trial, was found guilty and became a fugitive from justice) and grant him raves for a fine film.
Some will argue it is because Tiger set himself up as an all American family man and role model for youth (and garnered highly profitable product endorsements in the process.) I submit this scandal offers families the ultimate teaching moment: an opportunity to give our children a lesson in human complexity, for us to teach them that extreme competence in one area does not imply perfection in all others. This forces us to show our children the difference between fame (our society’s Golden Calf) and heroism. As we clamor for Tiger to “take responsibility for his misdeeds,” does this episode not remind us to define our own core values and uphold them ourselves, rather than place that responsibility on nipped and tucked celebrities, “overpaid” sports figures and, Heaven forbid, our all too human and horny political leaders?
The self-righteousness of Mr. Woods’ detractors reached its apex in the coverage of the Masters. We began with a homily from the head of Augusta National (which didn’t admit blacks into membership until 1990 and still does not accept women.) Billy Payne, in a moment unprecedented in the annals of the tournament, used the press conference to lambast Mr. Woods for “disappointing our kids and grand kids,” and warned him he would forevermore be judged by his behavior off the course. Thank you, Reverend Payne. (How will history and the good reverend’s grand-daughters judge him for upholding discriminatory policies against women?) The day after the tournament, sports writer Jay Mariotti described Mickelson’s moving victory as “a very necessary and uplifting moment at a time when scandals—including a very trashy one involving Tiger Woods have demoralized the American spirit.”
Really? Hmm. I’d no idea I was “demoralized” but that explains the malaise I’ve been feeling lately. It’s not the still struggling economy, the seemingly endless onslaught of recent natural disasters, the specter of terrorism and global warming. It’s that a golfer I’ve never met has cheated on a woman I don’t know, leaving me and the rest of America with nothing to believe in apparently, except perhaps a few real heroes in our own lives, and, oh yes, God. Thank you for the clarification, Mr. Mariotti. Now we understand our creeping despondency.
Later on in the same piece, Mr. Mariotti betrayed the insidious tribalism underlying his “moral outrage.” “Finally,” he wrote “we have some justice in the world. The right man won.” Last time I checked, tournaments were a test of athletic ability not of the world’s fairness. Is Mr. Mariotti really suggesting Tiger didn’t rightfully earn and deserve his previous myriad victories because of his failures as a husband? This journalist’s words offer an eerie echo of Jack London’s resentful coverage of black boxer Jack Johnson’s victory over Australian, Tommy Burns in the heavyweight championship fight of 1908 that became a parable of the struggle for racial dominance. “A golden smile was Johnson’s…Jeffries must emerge from his alfalfa farm and remove that golden smile from Johnson’s face. Jeff, it’s up to you. The white man must be rescued,” London seethed in the Herald Tribune, appealing to the white former heavyweight champion, James Jeffries to emerge from retirement and put the “upstart” Johnson (and by extension, all people of color) back in his place.
It appears that underlying much of the unrighteous indignation over Tiger’s transgressions and fall from grace is a Iago-esque resentment of his “unforgivable prowess,“ athletic and sexual. Though, since the beginning of his career, Mr. Woods has steadfastly refused to fly any ethnic flag and avoided racial controversy at all costs, at the end of the day, he represents the “other,” a man of many colors who like Jack Johnson before him, has dared to beat our country’s dominant group at their own game and like the irreverent, unapologetic boxer, “stolen” the flower of Anglo Saxon womanhood. In winning, Mickelson became, in effect, the latter day “great white hope” of Jack London’s dreams, restoring the “natural order of things” as he, an indisputably heroic white man swung his way to victory and then bestowed a kiss on his equally heroic blonde wife. Petty, threatened men could heave a sigh of relief. They had not, after all, lost everything to the “lesser races.” (In another country, the rivalry would be Serbs vs. Croats, Hutus vs. Tutsis, Ughyurs vs. ethnic Chinese. Here, the battle is joined between so-called whites and so-called blacks.) Through their exemplary behavior in the face of horrid health challenges, the Mickelsons have no doubt earned their bounty of praise and respect. Surely though, Tiger, given all he has accomplished in his young life, deserves far less scorn. Can we not spare just a bit of the compassion heaped upon the Mickelsons for him, our erstwhile pride and supernova? The press’s “punishment” of him seems grossly out of proportion with his “crime.” As Tiger’s relentless critics stoop to pick up yet more stones, it might behoove them to look within their own souls and ask why it feels so good and so important to hurl them.
1) Visible G-Vage, this is the backside equivalent of cleavage, but ladies, and gentlemen, unless you’re a plumber whose pants are weighted down by a tool belt, we really don’t want to see it. In the words of Jeff Foxworthy “Just say ‘no’ to crack!!” and we don’t just mean the drug.
2) Visible panty line. Ladies, men are scared enough of us. Let us not make our nether regions look like the Bermuda Triangle. Find a pair of smoothing pantyhose and do invest in the many many brands of comfortable g strings, or wear clothes that DON’T hug every millimeter of your beautiful shape.
3) Flip flops outside of the pedicurist. Put these rubber monstrosities away once your toe nails have dried.
4) Yards of tulle after thirty: way too prom night or Miss Haversham. Aside from the fact that it’s usually not flattering to the figure, are you at your quincinera or sweet sixteen? It’s time to grow up and face the bias cut.
5) White wedding gowns after the first marriage. Ladies, we’re already pushing it with the virginal color in round one. The number of true virgins marching down the aisle in any given year is probably in the single digits. Must we really stretch all credibility by wearing white the second or third time around? And are your children from marriage one to believe that they were hatched by Immaculate Conception?
6) Velvet in summer. It’s meant to keep you warm. Need we say more?
7) Open toe sandals in the dead of winter. All this says to the world is: “I have my own car and driver,” or “I’m pretending I have my own car and driver. “
1) If you’d wear it to bed or to lounge around the house, don’t wear it outside.
2) Just say “no” to velours tracksuits. They don’t do anyone any favors.
3) Don’t make your bottom a billboard. Provocative words scrawled across your second set of cheeks are not chic.
4) Dress for the occasion: No ball gowns on the basketball court, no tube tops at a black tie.
5) Beading is for evening. Don’t blind us with it in the daytime.
6) If it doesn’t look good on YOU, it isn’t “in.”
7) If you’re over forty, don’t stock up on the latest trendy item—“Gladiator” shoes, anyone?
8) If you wouldn’t buy it full price, don’t buy it on sale.
9) “The Red Shoes” was a great movie, but unless you’re Dorothy, they are not a fashion staple.
10) Have fun and dare to be different.
When it comes to style, I follow Polonius’ advice to his son upon seeing him off to Paris: “Neither a borrower nor a lender be/But to thine own self be true. “ My late mother, Josephine Premice, the chicest woman I’ve ever known, treated every foray out of the house as an occasion to dress, even if it was a trip to buy laundry detergent at Sloan’s Supermarket. She brought me up in the belief that every day offered an opportunity to express my uniqueness through wardrobe. Just as one didn’t imitate other people’s bad or slovenly habits (nose picking and smacking gum leap to mind,) one didn’t blindly follow trends, or douse oneself in a new perfume simply because it smelled good on the girl next door. My mother would not have won any awards for financial fitness but she did amass a magnificent collection of gowns and daytime pieces that she passed on to me. Once I had my daughter, I justified the purchase of many an overpriced item as an investment in a future heirloom. Alas, friends, that was in the old economy. Now, in the new, I have retired my credit card (Let us all observe a moment of respectful silence in honor of all the purchases that will never be….)
In truth, I ceased to be so quick on the Amex draw a full year before “depression 2.0” when the purchase of a particularly impractical mock crock purse made me face the fact that, though I had successfully avoided the family curse of alcoholism, I was a stone, two-sample-sales-a-month-rack-up-the-miles-on-credit-card shopaholic. My habit had begun many years before when I was a young and restless show runner in LA and decided after yet another break up with an unreliable man to shop my way to happiness. Rather than drown my sorrows in a bucket of Haagen Daaz French Vanilla, I took myself to Charles Gallay (the elegant and now defunct purveyor of Azzedine Alaia to “le tout Hollywood”) to buy a sexy, flaunting-the-wares spandex dress once a week (I could retire now on the fortunes squandered on these itsy bitsy dresses.) The habit continued well into marriage, just with different, and arguably more tasteful merchandise. I shopped when I traveled, I shopped when I was worried about cash flow. I bought a little black dress every time I felt blue. I could have deluded myself that all was well, after all, I paid my bills in full every month and no one went hungry. But, clearly, I was filling a void (I won’t bore you with a description of that particular black hole, dear reader, that’s what I pay my psychiatrist to pop the “no doze” and listen to.)
Finally, as the forty something year old mother of a young child, I felt it was no longer endearing or responsible to act as though I had a money orchard in my back yard (I don’t even HAVE a back yard.) Wanting to leave my daughter an inheritance consisting of more than a Winnebago crammed with designer frocks, and my best wishes, I went cold turkey. I didn’t allow myself to darken the door of my favorite boutiques, tossed invitations to sample sales directly in the “round file,” and never ventured beyond the makeup section of Saks Fifth Avenue, my favorite New York department store. I had gone through a similar period of self-abnegation ten years prior, when my husband and I renovated our apartment, and my money needed to go towards faucets not fripperies. I thought at the time that I would reach a new consciousness about the spiritual emptiness of shopping, and learn to be content with what I had. Alas, I did not reach that summit of enlightenment. On the contrary, the minute I felt I could afford to, I yelled “Emptiness, schmemptiness,” made a mad dash to my favorite stores, like a relapsed wino on a bender. This time around (a full decade, and many, many gowns later,) however, I found a new pleasure in denial and overcoming the feverish desire to buy for the sake of buying. I reached if not the Everest of enlightenment and contentment, at the very least, base camp. And, let’s be honest, over twenty two years of power shopping in boutiques from Los Angeles to Hong Kong, to Loehmann’s Back Room had equipped me for anything but a Safari in Africa and meeting his Holiness, the Pope. Somehow, I don’t think I’ve made the Vatican’s short list so, in this lifetime, there’s no need to scour the city for the head to toe black lace required of such an audience.
[Photo at left] This ensemble is a combination platter: a Christian Dior “Keyhole” dress purchased for 200 dollars at a sample sale, combined with a chiffon scarf from Giorgio’s of Beverly Hills (RIP). The dress was reduced to nothing because it was missing the little leather belt intended to fasten it at the neck. I wear it with a variety of scarves, necklaces, each one creates a different effect. The handbag is by the Goddess: Judith Lieber.
My favorite time to dress, even in the era of financial sobriety and restraint, is evening because it is a time of magic, and mercifully low lighting for someone my age who has yet to succumb to Botox injections to fill up the rivulets forming on her brow!!!! Low lighting also helps to hide a multitude of follicular sins (read: greys when one hasn’t had time to make it to the hair colorist.) More than anything, a black tie soiree is great theater, with hundreds of magnificently dressed performers. Like my mother, I’m a traditionalist. In my book, black ties call for long gowns, unless you’re in you’re twenties and aiming to find a “husband for the evening.” I believe you can wear the same thing twice, in fact multiple times, just not to the same places with the same people (another one of my mother’s rules.) I purchase gowns that will stand the test of time, not those that scream the year that they were in fashion (remember all those hideous taffeta confections from the ‘80’s. Can you say “bon bon about to take flight?”) I’m also a devotee of accessories, more is definitely more, they make the outfit. A sumptuous cut velvet shawl, and a jewel toned satin minaudiere, for example, bring a simple black dress to life. I seek less to match colors and more to harmonize. A collector’s approach to amassing accessories will save a great deal of money over the years, and guard one from the “garanimals” effect, e.g. the leopard print pumps purchased to go with the dress that was in THAT year.
In terms of daywear, motherhood has made me a devotee of pants. While I adore skirts and suits, they simply aren’t functional when you’re dealing with someone under five feet tall. Again, accessories matter, a beautiful silk scarf used as a belt, fun jewelry, and now that I no longer lug diapers around, great purses (although each and everyone of mine is now a de facto Cheerios granary.) Slacks are not synonymous with slovenly. There is no need to surrender chic to practicality and personally, I prefer a degree of formality. For a woman of color, “When and where I enter, the whole race enters with me,” that’s why we’re always overdressed. I remember once being at a dinner party seated next to a very pretty, petite blonde. She began a story with the words “I ran into Tiffany’s in my sweats.” I don’t recall the rest of the tale because all I could think was, “There’s a sentence I’ll never utter.” I wouldn’t go out in the street in sweats unless someone’s life hung in the balance, but I certainly couldn’t afford to go to an expensive boutique thus clad for fear of being trailed by security. Yes, sadly, even in the age of the Obamas, I think it would be an invitation to maltreatment. Beyond that, my DNA steers me away from the tracksuit, cargo pant section of the store. Old fashioned? Definitely. Up tight? Perhaps. But when it comes to clothes, “I’ve got to be me.” Who are you?
