I posted this photo on Facebook with the caption, “This is how I show up for work everyday. You?” Eden Goodsoe of Skinny Scoop replied, “Is there a Barbie that has her hair in a wet ponytail, no make-up and a mishmash of clothes? That’s me!” which got me wondering, if you could name your Barbie, what would it be?
I might be Late for Work Barbie or Tired and Cranky Mommy Barbie. I could definitely relate to Bad Hair Day Barbie, Needs a Manicure Barbie, and Slow Jogging Barbie. But Mattel doesn’t sell those dolls. Lest I appear too self-deprecating, rest assured, I could also be Great Shoes Barbie.
Eighty-five percent of people polled by Eversave admit they’ve been annoyed by their Facebook friends. I’m not alone. The survey says the top three annoyances are friends who use the social site to complain, share unsolicited political views (oops) and brag about their “seemingly perfect lives.”
That’s the one that gets me. Last year I wrote, “It is not helpful for the media to bombard us with messages about perfect women, with perfect bodies, living perfect lives, with perfect spouses. What’s the point? These stories omit the parts about the personal trainers and nutritionists who helped the celebs get back in shape, or the fact they are getting paid big bucks to get those bodies back, or the house staff and personal assistants and nannies helping them balance work and family, or the really tough nights and overwhelming doubts that every new parent experiences at some point. And we are left wondering why our lives aren’t more like theirs. And now Facebook is starting to read just like one of those glossy magazine features.”
Perfection is over-rated. It’s our flaws that set us free.
As I wrote, “It’s not that I have a problem with celebrating a fabulous life. I actually feel strongly that women should brag to their friends at least once a week. We need to celebrate our successes. But we also need to be honest with each other. In between the vacation, the marathons and the family photo opps, what else is going on in your life? We need to share that too.”
But not, necessarily, on Facebook.
Eversave offers daily deals for busy women like us. Check it out, but if you treat yourself to a day at the spa or dinner at a fabulous restaurant, please don’t gloat about it online. (Disclosure: I have a business relationship with Eversave.)
If husbands were shoes, I always thought I’d marry a stiletto. A stylish, beautiful stiletto of course, maybe a Manolo Blahnik or a Jimmy Choo. If I didn’t marry a stiletto I’d at least end up with a Prada pump. I imagined Mr. Right wearing a well-tailored suit to the office every day. He would work in the city in finance or law. On Friday nights we would open a bottle of red and order take-out from a Thai restaurant.
But when it came time to settle down, I made a very different choice. The truth is I never even dated stilettos or pumps. They sounded great on paper, but in real life I was always attracted to loafers. If my husband was a shoe, he’d be a loafer — not a Gucci, not a J.P. Todd, but a Bass Weejun, to be exact.
It turns out the Weejun is the perfect fit. Weejuns are classic like Levis, navy blazers and Timex watches. They have solid New England values. With a Bass Weejun, what you see is what you get. They are never pretentious and they don’t make other shoes feel bad about themselves. They are at home in any closet. Weejuns are just as comfortable hanging out with Christian Louboutin as they are with Kenneth Cole. Weejuns tell it like it is. They don’t buy into fads or trends. They come in a standard oxblood color that will never be in style but that never goes out of style.
My Weejun is dependable. He feels comfortable in that just right, broken in kind of way. He is familiar, a safe choice, and he keeps my feet planted firmly on the ground. When I’m with my Weejun I can dress up in Armani or dress down in jeans. No matter what, I know he’ll be in Dockers and a golf shirt. On Friday nights, I kick of my Delman flats and we order burgers from the local pub. He drinks Coke, from the can, and I have a glass of white. My Weejun and me, we make a great pair.
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The red carpet was fantastic at last night’s 83rd Academy Awards. We loved all the red dresses. Anne Hathaway, Jennifer Lawrence, Sandra Bullock and Jennifer Hudson (although hers was actually tangerine) sported this year’s “it” color. Purple was the other color of choice. Natalie Portman’s deep purple Rodarte gown was stunning. Mila Kunis and Cate Blanchet looked lovely in paler shades of purple.
Offsetting the vibrant hues were nudes and metallics – a trend that carried over from last year. But this year, the shimmer, feathers and jewels made the dresses look fresh and fantastic. Gwyneth Paltrow, Hailee Steinfeld, Hillary Swank and Halle Berry all wore beautiful, pale gowns.
Ponytails were the hot accessory this year. Nicole Kidman and Reese Witherspoon both wore this year’s version of the updo.
And in the can’t remember the gown, but aren’t these women stunning category – Mandy Moore and Sharon Stone both looked great.
We only have one winner for the worst category: the show. Yawn. We turned it off.
You’ll notice a “Daily Saves” link at the top of the site. Check it out for daily offers. If you’re going to engage in retail therapy, you may as well save a few dollars. This weekend there are two offers we like:
$27 for $60 worth of wine -delivered!
$5 for a year’s subscription to Working Mother Magzine.
We stayed up talking until one in the morning; three generations spread out across three houses. My mother and my children were asleep in one house. My husband was watching TV with my cousin Annemarie and her husband Norm in another. Inside the cottage five children slept and Isabel packed lunches to bring to the beach the next day.
I sat on the deck of the cottage with my father, my uncle Jimmy, my cousin Paul and his wife Stacia. The citronella candles did a poor job of discouraging the mosquitoes. The wine was gone. My father, the oldest family member, was telling a story about the first cottage, the one that burned down. We were just five people sitting in the dark that night, but we represented something enormous to me.
Just as the stars are more visible in the sky at the Cape than they are at home, my place in the Universe is more obvious when I am there. At home, I am just me: imperfect, sometimes happy, sometimes sad. At the Cape, I am part of something big; something that can’t be broken. At the Cape, I am part of a large family. We are fun. We are kind. We are together.
I am one of twenty-five cousins who spent summers in that cottage. Every year our parents divided the summer into eight two-week intervals and each family took a vacation. Often two families would overlap and cram nine kids and four adults into the tiny, two bedroom house.
Those two weeks always felt like two months. We would pack up our station wagons and drive an hour and a half door-to-door but it always felt like we were entering a whole different world.
There was no telephone at the cottage. If we needed to make a call, we used the pay phone at the Carleton Circle Motel three quarters of a mile down the road. We had no dishwasher and no washing machine. The midway point of most vacations was usually marked by a visit to the laundromat, conveniently located next to the Dairy Queen.
Each family played out its own private story during their two weeks. Maybe someone yelled too loud or drank too much. But if there were any problems, they were self-contained within each two week vacation. We didn’t share them in the group.
What we talked and laughed about were the common rituals that wove our lives together. None of the cousins were allowed to bathe at the cottage. The pipes were unreliable so showers were reserved for adults only. Children washed in the lake with a bar of Ivory soap. There was a television, a 10 inch black and white, but it only received three channels. The summer I turned six it rained almost every day of our vacation. We watched the Watergate Hearings all week.
On nice days we played in the lot next door. The chimney from the original cottage was still standing so we turned it into a fort. And there was the crib. The youngest child in every family slept in that crib until they were five, sometimes six years old, because there was no other place to lie down.
In recent years Jimmy had knocked down the chimney and built on the lot to the left of the cottage. My parents had built a house to the right. And several of my uncles and aunts had graduated to beautiful oceanfront property across town. Now as adults, my cousins and I brought our children to the Cape every weekend. There were almost enough beds for all of us. Two weeks no longer felt like two months. Instead the few precious weekends between Memorial Day and Labor Day always went too fast. If there were any bad memories they had been erased; we only recalled the benign things like the wild parties at the house by the beach and the woman across the street who called the cops if we played kick-the-can after eight o’clock at night.
On the Cape, I can feel my grandparents’ presence. Our parents tell us Nana wanted the summer cottage to be a place where her family would get together. Many times when I am sitting on that deck I whisper silently to her and thank her for creating this world for us. And I thank my generation for adding the deck. To me the deck is more than extra living space for a cramped house. Nana and Grandpa built the house. Our parents, aunts and uncles kept the house. And it was the cousins who extended and improved the house. It was our generation that made the house more functional, that started a new tradition and erected a new gathering spot. To me the deck represents hope that our family will stay together. As our parents age and someday die, as our children grow and our lives evolve, we will return to the Cape each summer to be together. We will step into the roles vacated by our parents and we will be okay.
Off the Cape we come from eight related but separate families. We experience birth, love, success, cancer, addiction, divorce and death. On the Cape, we are a group; and we create something powerful and unconditional. We don’t speak of problems because we don’t make any room for them. We don’t want, because whatever we might lack can be found in the group. We don’t hurt, because we are together. Love, laughter (and food) are the only currencies in which we deal.
I was aware that night on the deck that something special was happening.
“This is a moment,” I said when my father stopped to take a breath. “We are having a moment.”
Stacia, always positive, smiled and nodded in agreement. My father, my uncle and Paul said nothing. Like most families, ours has an unwritten code of conduct. We will be kind and loving and we will be together. But we will not mention it. A few minutes after I spoke, the group broke up and everyone went to bed, a subtle reminder of the rules.
The other day I opened my email and there was an offer to review a pair of Pajama Jeans. If you don’t watch late night TV, you may not have seen the commercials for these so-called jeans that supposedly fit and feel like pajamas.
Are Pajama Jeans ever okay?
At first I was offended. I don’t wear Crocs, see no reason for flip flops and I would never wear pajama jeans. Then I was intrigued. I did break down and by UGGs after all. And then I remembered a favorite motto – Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.
The whole three minute incident prompted me to revive this essay which first appeared on My It Things in 2007. Enjoy.
Does Fashion Matter?
At the risk of incurring Miranda Priestley’s infamous Cerulean speech from “The Devil Wears Prada” when she verbally shreds her assistant for referring to fashion as “stuff”, I need to ask the question: Does fashion matter?
Here’s the thing: I am an unfashionable size 12. I live in a middle class suburb. I work in a male-dominated industry in a blue-collar town west of Boston. My social life consists of family movie night every Friday (microwave popcorn and a Disney DVD), SwimTots at the community pool every Saturday morning, and dinner at my in-laws on Sundays. These are hardly the stats of a fashion insider.
I could easily live my life in two pair of khakis, a pair of jeans and a few sweaters from the Gap. Yet I soak up the features in fashion magazines. I like the articles that tell you how to go from office to evening–you know the ones that advise you to wear a suit to work and then change from the spectator pumps to strappy stilettos, from the Thomas Pink button-down to a sequined camisole, and from the Longchamp tote to an oversized satin clutch and voila, you’re ready to party.
I spend hundreds of dollars on fashion magazines every year. I have at least six fashion blogs bookmarked on my computer. I can tell a Prada from a Miu Miu, and spot a Tory Burch tunic a mile away. I lust after Manolo heels and Delman flats. I know that gray is the new black, Zac Posen is the new Marc Jacobs, and Agynes is the new Kate. My closet is packed with an eclectic mix of designer, vintage, leopard, and metallic. This season I covet cuffs and gladiator sandals.
For the office, I mix high-end, classic items from Armani and Escada with basics and trendy pieces from Banana Republic and Club Monaco. I carry my laptop in a Prada bowling bag circa 2000. My coworkers favor Chicos for the high-end and Walmart for the low-end. At PTO meetings and at the playground, my neighbors sport Old Navy fleece or knock-off Burberry jackets with Merrel sneakers.
So why do I bother? I have a modest budget. I share one salary with a spouse, two kids, two dogs and a 1920s Colonial fixer upper. I could put my time and money to much better use.
Like many 40-something, middle class women, my life looks good on paper. And it is. I have a husband I not only love, but I actually like. I have two healthy children. I own a home. I have no reason, no right really, to complain.
But I’m so tired all the time. I go from home to work and back again with barely any time to think. What my husband, a stay at home Dad, offers in love and compassion, he lacks in housekeeping. Laundry is stacked on the dining room table. Toys cover the living room floor. Our bed hasn’t been made since we bought a new duvet cover in 1999. While my job pays well, it is just that, a job — not a career. And exercise, something I do no more than five times a month, feels like a burden. I am fueled by two pots of coffee and a modest dose of Prozac every day yet I still can’t get out of my rut.
Many of my friends, under the pressures of careers and kids and aging parents, feel the same way. As a result, some of them overeat. Some drink. Some spend compulsively. I have experimented with all of those things. But my best coping strategy? I style.
When my children and husband have finally gone to bed, when I have finished answering emails from earlier in the day, I escape to our spare room where I keep my wardrobe. I rule over my closet with the exacting attention to detail that Anna Wintour and Glenda Bailey bring to the pages of their glossy magazines every month.
My closet is the only part of my life that feels organized. Alone in the night, I open every shoe box and reorganize them. Pumps go in the middle of the closet, ballets slippers to the right. Boots are organized by color and heel style. On Friday nights, I take the handbags I’ve carried all week and place them back in their felt sleeper bags. Then I move on to my jewelry. I have a fantastic mix of vintage and costume. I hang the necklaces, pair the earrings, stack the bangles. My kitchen counter may be covered with a days’ worth of dirty dishes but my accessory drawers are pristine.
Every Sunday night, I lay out outfits and create new combinations for the week ahead. I experiment with looks by changing shoes or belts. I take inventory of what’s in my closet and make lists of the pieces I need. Then I go to EBay and Bluefly, neimanmarcus.com and The Budget Fashionista to shop for deals.
I know it sounds frivolous, selfish even. But for me, it is salvation. My wardrobe allows me to exert control in a life that feels like it is controlling me. It lets me dress for the life I want to live, instead of the life I’m living. It helps me envision a future when I will be able to pursue my dreams. And it allows me to appreciate how blessed I am, because I know that is the case.
So to answer the question, does fashion matter? To me, it matters a lot.
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We love the holidays because we have time to finish all of the books we’ve started during the year. The house is clean, the office is closed and the parties are over. We just sit in front of the fire and turn pages. Need some reading recommendations? Here are our top five picks:
Gloria Feldt is a powerhouse – and she knows how to use her power for the greater good. She’s a leader, a mentor, and an inspiration. This book will clear your path to success, stripping away any of the barriers you think are in your way.
You know how inspired we’ve been by the She Negotiates course –read the book from one of the course leaders. You too can master the conflicts in your life.
“Her Place at the Table” by Deborah M. Kolb, PhD; Judith Williams, PhD; Carol Frolinger, JD
“Her Place at the Table” is another great book grounded in negotiating skills that helps women navigate the challenges of the business world. The authors do a fantastic job of mixing research and real life stories to instruct and inspire women.
Pozner is is founder and executive director of Women In Media & News (WIMN), a media analysis, education and advocacy group. We haven’t cracked this book yet, but we’re looking forward to reading it. Pozner promises to debunk the fairy tales, beauty myths and negative stereotyping of women served up nightly on reality tv shows. If you’ve got a “Real Housewives” habit like we do, read this book.
This is a must-read for mothers, their families, and the people who employee them. Lerner lays out the realities of women trying to manage work, maternity leave, childcare, and careers.
Happy Holidays and happy reading!
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We are honored and thrilled to be named a Finalist in the Blog of the Year category in the 7th annual Stevie Awards for Women in Business. More than 1,200 entries were submitted this year for consideration in 54 categories.
Stevie Awards for Women in Business honor women executives, entrepreneurs, and the companies they run – worldwide. The Stevie Awards have been hailed as the world’s premier business awards.
The other finalists in the Blog of the Year category are:
I posted this photo on Facebook with the caption, “This is how I show up for work everyday. You?” Eden Goodsoe of Skinny Scoop replied, “Is there a Barbie that has her hair in a wet ponytail, no make-up and a mishmash of clothes? That’s me!” which got me wondering, if you could name your Barbie, what would it be?
