IslandRoar

American Woman!

On my latest visit to Manhattan, we took in an exhibit at The Metropolitan Museum of Art on American women and fashion.

There were photos, video, and actual pieces of clothing, including shoes and accessories, from the last decades of the 19th century through the 1930's. There were bustles and corsets, gowns that pushed breasts up enhancing them, and those that flattened them completely, all in the name of style.

I found it fascinating. Whether we consider ourselves fashionistas or completely hopeless in this department, we are all of us defined in some way by the fashions of our time.

It was particularly interesting to read the historical information included with each decade's pieces, reflecting on how the trends may have affected, or been affected by, the current political climate and society's attitudes toward women.

Is it a coincidence that skirts were raised and hair bobbed after women got the vote? At this same time fashion also dictated that voluptuous women bind their breasts, perhaps eschewing all that was blatantly feminine, yet simultaneously rejecting, in some way, part of what defines us physically as women.

My grandmother, pictured above (on the right) with her sister (in the middle) and a friend in the early 20's, once confided to me that she felt flattening her bosom this way had "ruined" her breasts for life.

Ironically, by the 30's and the golden movie star era, curves were being celebrated like never before and starlets like Rita Hayworth were swinging their hips in incredibly clingy gowns with plunging necklines.

The exhibit ended there, leading me to hope that in the future there'll be another, maybe featuring fashion from the WWII years on through the glamorous 50's, flower-children 60's, and bra-burning 70's.

I admit to occasionally going bra-less in the late 70's, but my mother very vocally disapproved, and I believe my 48 year-old breasts thank me emphatically today for not making this a habit.

At the end of the exhibit we found ourselves in a circular room with a continuous slide show on all sides, flashing shots of famous women and fashion over the years. There were suffragettes marching in their long Gibson Girl dresses and huge hats, Marilyn Monroe in that memorable pink gown, and Michelle Obama striding down the road in her yellow coat on Inauguration Day.

All the while, the song American Woman blasted out as we turned round and round, absorbing the show on every side. Gazing upon each of these exquisitely memorable women and this amazing parade of individual style over the years.

It made me proud to be a woman. No matter what I decide to wear.

Where's My Horse??

"Did you ride your horse to work?" One of my favorite wise-ass patrons directed this comment to me a couple weeks ago, glancing at my cowboy boots.

"Of course." I went along with the joke. "Didn't you see it tied up outside?"

I love my cowboy boots. They're the real deal. I've had some boots over the years that came close, but they had a zipper or were otherwise not up to snuff.

Daughter #1 goes to school in western Pennsylvania which, for the purpose of this post, could just as well be Wyoming. Seriously, I've been there. I kid you not.

After we dropped her off at college last August for the very first time, and as The Ex and I were starting the long, emotionally wrought trek back to Massachusetts, we passed by a big sign on the highway that read something like:

Western Wear! The Most Awesomest Boots in the Whole Wide World! Stop and assuage your broken grieving heart!!

Eureka!

"Pull off here. Quick!" I shrieked to The Ex, who was driving. And miraculously, he did just that.

Back in the day, when we were married, if I asked him to pull off the highway suddenly, for anything, he'd say ever so slowly, Oooh, soorrry, you tooold me tooo late, as he drove right on by. It was nice to see he was evolving.

Inside this amazing store was a real-life cowboy. Don't ask me to prove it to you; some things you just know. He had a western drawl and a very cool cowboy hat and a cowboy shirt and a cowboy belt.

I picked out three pairs of boots to try on. But no, he brought me an entirely different pair without even measuring my feet. And, you guessed it, they fit perfectly. Like butter.

Clearly he had cowboy magic. I've never had such comfortable boots in my life.

When we went back down there for Daughter #1's Family Weekend in October we stopped in again. Daughter #2 got a pair of tall red cowboy boots from that same cowboy. To. Die. For.

Daughter #1 claims she's not interested, but we'll see how long that lasts. As for me, I'm thinking she'll be at this college for three more years...

Roughly, that translates into three more pairs of cowboy boots, wouldn't you say?

 

 

Hole In One

I had to re-insert Daughter #2's nose ring last week.

Through its four day-old pierced opening on the side of what had previously been her perfect little nose. It got caught on her shirt when she'd pulled it over her head that morning and ripped right out.

You're probably wondering why I haven't mentioned the fact that Daughter #2 got her nose pierced before this. Maybe because I wanted you to still like me.

I'm not blind; I know how society views the bevy of pierced, tattoo'd teens wandering in our midst.

I'd already told you about Daughter #1's tattoo. Now Daughter #2 has a pierced nose. What's next? Revealing all three kids are multiply-pierced, tramp-stamped members of some gothic cult?

Daughter #2's nose piercing is actually part of her 16th birthday gift. Sweet, I know.

She asked me years ago when she was maybe 12 if she could get her nose pierced. I paused to consider: I'm 48 years old; I've worked with teens both in hospital and high school settings. And like you, I have eyes. There are a lot worse things out there that teens can do to themselves than stick a little jewel in one's nose.

So I told her yes. A tiny tiny stud. When she was 16. Because at the time 16 seemed so far away.

She won't actually be 16 till May. But I wanted it healed before summer at the beach. And I wasn't sure when we'd be off-island before her birthday.

Coincidentally, that same day of the piercing, she was to be Confirmed in  Falmouth with five other island kids from her Martha's Vineyard Sunday School class.

You see my reasoning here, right?

I mean, if we had to be off-island to receive a Catholic sacrament, might as well throw in a little nose piercing as well. Call me blasphemous, but the irony is not unappealing.

I could practically hear my mother shaking her head right through the telephone when I told her. "Hey," I wanted to say, "you should just be happy I've gotten all three of your grandchildren through Communion and Confirmation. My holy job is done." 

At any rate, Confirmation was lovely, blah, blah blah.

And the nose piercing? Well, picture Pollyanna walking into a Hell's Angels rally. Enough said.

I didn't stop to consider that I might, four days later, have my fingers up her nose, trying to re-insert a tiny corkscrew stud into a now bloody, yet seemingly invisible hole.

But once again Mommy saved the day. There is no end, apparently, to my vast array of untapped parenting skills. So help me God.

Is there something you've had to do as a parent that you could never have imagined in a million years? Please share. It can't be worse than having my blood-stained fingers up my daughter's nostril, can it?

 

A Bag By Any Other Name

I grew up calling my handbag a pocketbook. This is what my mother called it. And her mother...

Purse or bag might be the trendy terms for this today, but in our house, a bag came from the grocery store, and a purse was something you put change in. Women carried pocketbooks.

My daughters have apparently inherited the term, and for this they give me major grief.

"Do you know how weird it is to call it a pocketbook!" they say accusingly. "People laugh at us. They think we're old ladies."

"Just tell them you're unique," I advise.

I know they're right. And I'm trying to amend my ways, so that the words bag or purse will flow easily and elegantly from my mouth.

But old family habits die hard.

We grew up not eating fish unless we were at home. Family Mythology held that my mother's father, who'd died when my mom was only 13, had eaten fish from a restaurant and died that same night from food poisoning.

One of my mother's little brothers grew up to be a doctor, and he now disputes the accuracy of this, but he was merely six years old at the time, so what does he know?

All I can tell you is we were raised that to order fish in a restaurant was akin to drinking year-old milk, or swimming with your boots on; it just wasn't done.

Naturally I thought the entire world was in on this secret.

So imagine my shock and horror when, one week into college, my roommate told the cafeteria lady she'd take the fish.

"But they made that here," I insisted, tempted to fling it from her tray. "You can't eat that."

"Why not?" She stared at me like I was insane.

"Because it might kill you." For the first time, as I said the words out loud, I realized how ridiculous they sounded.

I watched her eat the fish. And live.

I might not have eaten it that night. Or for many nights to come. But I live on Martha's Vineyard, for goodness sakes. Of course I eat fish.

Now, if I could just keep reminding myself there is no such thing as a pocketbook, I might actually be getting somewhere.

How about you? Are there any old family legacies in your life better left behind?

 

We Rock

I slept on curlers the other night, for the first time in a long time. The soft, foamy kind. Electric rollers don't work so well on my hair. It's kind of thick and stubborn. Like me.

I like my hair a lot. I've said this before. I consider myself a pretty humble person, but, for the record, I realize I've made a point of stating here that I like my hair and I think I smell nice.

Oh, and my feet. I think I have pretty feet.

I try to take photos of them in a variety of exotic warm weather locations. It's a love found late in life.

Believe it or not, I didn't start polishing my toenails until I was over 40. It seems the older I get, the more of a girly-girl I become. But a tough girly-girl. I am, after all, from New Jersey.

I'm a little worried that by admitting this stuff, you might think I have an inflated ego. Because of my feelings for my hair and my feet and how good I smell.

Why is it that we as women are so often hesitant to admit the many good things about ourselves, to praise ourselves? Are we worried other women will label us conceited bitches?

I've noticed most of us are pretty quick to point out our faults. I'm trying to stop doing this. I could name five negative things about myself right now in the blink of an eye.

But I won't. Instead, I'm going to tell you three good things about myself. Things I like.

And I'm going to have the nerve to ask you to do the same.

Here are mine: (in addition  to those I've already mentioned) I think I'm a generous and fun person; I like to think I have a really good sense of style; I like my fair, freckled, Irish coloring.

Okay, your turn. Come on, three things you like about yourself. Really, I want to know.

We all do.

 

Flying Solo

This weekend I'm going to the one big formal holiday party I'm invited to each year.

By myself.

You don't get invited to many social events when you're divorced. I'm not trying to induce any pity here. It's just a fact.

I have some very good friends, and if they're having a pot-luck or a barbecue they'll be sure to include me. But when people decide to go out to dinner or have a drink at a restaurant or see a movie, it's generally a couples thing.

Two years ago when I was dating someone for a relatively long period of time I had many more invitations. Which is ironic, because I'm much more in need of a social life when I''m not dating and I'm by myself.

Nobody means to be cruel. I'm sure they don't think twice about it. It's one of society's best kept little secrets.

But this one party I am invited to each year requires flashing your invitation at the door to get in. I was lucky enough to land a spot on this mysterious "list" several years ago while I was working with one of the several people who host the affair (herself a single divorced woman). They key to remaining on the guest list, apparently, is that you must attend the party.

So I have. And, every year but one, I've attended it alone.

The first time I did this I thought I would throw up.

Go to a fancy party alone? The idea of merely walking in the door made me want to run home, grab some Haagen-Dazs, and break out the Netflix. It's not that I don't love parties. I do. But I'd never attended this kind of affair solo.

Two of my married friends, who themselves coveted a spot on the guest list, took me under their wing. One loaned me a vintage black wool halter dress that had belonged to her mother-in-law in the 60's. The other sent over several beautiful pieces of costume jewelry for me to choose from.

It may seem neurotic to think people turn and look when you enter such a soiree alone. But believe me, they do.

I headed straight for the bar. It was like being back in college, that feeling that I was capable of bridging any social barrier if I had a beer in my hand. Except now it was cabernet.

Martha's Vineyard is a small place, especially in winter. There were a lot of people there I knew. Everyone was dressed to the nines, a sight to behold here any time of year, take my word for it.

There was makeup, heels, men in actual suits and ties, tuxedos and gowns even. It felt a little like we were all Cinderella, transformed somehow from our every day selves by magic to attend the ball.

I wasn't prepared for the first comment on my flying solo.

"You're here alone?" an acquaintance boldly exclaimed. Then she patted me on the arm enthusiastically. "Good for you!"

I wish I could say she was the only one.

To be honest, some years it would be easier to stay home. But it's kind of become a challenge I feel I must rise to year after year.

I always end up having a good time. And I always leave feeling a little stronger, a little more whole in my self.

And, of course, I'm always happy to realize I've clinched my spot on the guest list for at least one more year.

 

I'm Fabulous!

 

My friend over at F8HASIt recently bestowed this award on me. I read her blog every day, enjoying her cleverly written thoughts and observations. She makes me feel sane.

She wrote she wishes "we were sisters from different mothers," which I consider a great compliment. And who knows? Stranger things have happened.

I am supposed to reveal five obsessions I have and pass this award on to five other worthy bloggers.

The blogger part is easy; I read so many wonderful blogs. These five are some of the ones I make sure to check out every day. I enjoy everything they post.

-...A Mom on Spin: she blogs about her adventures working in a rectory and raising three teen daughters. She is absolutely hysterical.

-Privilege: writes about fashion, career, and life, all from the point of view of the High WASP, in a cool, sophisticated manner, sprinkled throughout with warmth and humor.

-Gloria's Spanish View: this is a newer blog whose author upended her life and moved to Spain. She's got fascinating stories and amazing photos to share.

-Life and Times of a Wicked Step Mom: this blogger is stepmom to 3 daughters. Her tales of life show both the frustrating and poignant moments.

-only a movie: I just discovered this blogger recently. Her words are honest and funny, and she is a fellow New Englander to boot.

Now for the harder part. I'd like to claim I'm not obsessive about anything, but who am I kidding?

1-My writing: this has been my life's passion since I was eight. Can't add anything to that.

2-Gardening: I need to have flowers blooming spring through fall. This summer I was so busy working (and blogging) that I slacked off, which makes me feel guilty, which proves my obsession.

3-Taking photos: I'm not sure why. Maybe some part of me feels that if there's no picture of it, it didn't happen. I actually went and bought a new camera two weeks ago when my very good one suddenly died and I had to bring it in to be fixed. Daughter #1 was going off to school; I obviously had to have photos.

4-Shoes: enough said.

5-Daughter #2 says I should put "my kids," but even though that may be true, it doesn't mean I have to own up to it. 

The blogs I listed are so fabulous that at least a couple of them probably already have this award. But I wanted them to know, anyway, how very much I enjoy reading what they write.

Now you need to go check them out, even if you already know them.

Go on. I'm serious!

 

Crowning Glory

To Cut or Not to Cut...

Now that I have the dress for my high school reunion, I made an appointment to get my hair cut.

I've been going to the same woman since I moved out here, and after all these years she's become a friend, as well as being amazing with hair. She did Daughter #1's hair for her junior prom, and Daughter #2's for her eighth grade graduation last year, and they looked like they should be in a full page spread in Vogue.

Not that I'm going to let her do much. I wear my hair long. I'm sure many people (yes, I mean you, Mom) think 47 is too old to wear your hair down your back. But I like it this way.

I've always liked my reddish hair, the texture and the color. I got a lot of attention for it as a kid. I still don't have any gray, but the blond highlights have gotten lighter and lighter the past couple of years, and I'm wondering if they may just eventually turn from blond to white.

I've cut my hair pixie short exactly three times in my life, at 6, 13, and 37. Each time, even at 6, I was looking for a big change, and each time I hated it. At 13 I went to school wearing a hooded sweatshirt, trying to hide it.

"What happened to your beautiful red hair!" my English teacher moaned. And I wanted to cry. I told everyone I needed it short to be on my swim team, which was a bold-faced lie.

That trauma kept me from cutting it short for almost 25 years. But after my marriage ended I wanted to change everything. Native Americans used to chop their hair off as an act of mourning, and sometimes I think that's what I was doing: mourning.

Other times I think I might have been hiding. A woman's hair can be a very sensual thing. I mean, what's the deal with men and long hair anyway? I've seen men turn their heads at women that are seriously not attractive, just because of the hair. I look back at when my marriage ended, and it's easy to see why I may have wanted to hide.

A couple of years ago my hair had grown really long, pretty much the way it is now. Again, I was looking for a change, but I wasn't going to chop it all off. Instead, I had it cut to just above my shoulders. It was dramatically different, sure, but I was totally not prepared for the way the men in my life, from my friends to my ex, responded.

"You cut your hair." They practically whined, seeming to be in mourning themselves.

I felt as though I'd had my breasts removed. I couldn't believe this connection men have between hair and sexuality, or even attractiveness. Come on guys, it's only hair! Has anyone else ever had a similar experience?

I know plenty of women that look stunning with shorter hair. But apparently, I am not one of them. Luckily, that suits me.

This time I'm only going in for a decent trim. Nothing drastic. Clearly, I don't think I could handle it.

The Price of Perfection

A Dress to Kill

So my 30th high school reunion is in two weeks and I'd had yet to get a dress.

This can be a big deal when you live on an island. I can't just decide to buzz off to the mall this weekend. Even if I had the time to take the boat off and back on-island, I probably couldn't get a ferry reservation at such short notice this time of year.

I'm not sure how I let this happen. I'm usually pretty good at knowing when I'll need  to buy something off-island, and then planning ahead of time when I can go. But with my daughter's graduation and my parents visit, this one got by me.

It's not that I can't buy a dress on-island. Of course I can. The Vineyard has some of the trendiest little stores around. Trendiest, very expensive little stores, especially, again, this time of year.

But unless I wanted to order something on line and risk having to exchange it in time, I really had no choice. So Daughter #2 and I hit some shops. She's good for me to shop with. She gives me her honest opinion and, even more important, she doesn't make me feel terrible if I decide to ignore her advice, and buy something she hates, anyway.

We tried four stores and each seemed to have two dresses I felt were worth trying on, and one that could have been a possibility (did I mention how picky I can be?). They were all expensive, but like I said, at this point I was paying for convenience, which is never cheap.

My mother had given me some cash as an early birthday gift when she was here, so I was using that to rationalize further. Let's just say I was willing to spend $500. That's not the real amount, but I'm sure if I said the real amount, half of you would think it's too much and half of you would think it's too little, so I'll just go with $500 because, hopefully, we can all agree that's too much for one freaking dress for a freaking 30 year high school reunion.

At least that's what one would think...

But at the fourth store there was the dress. It was soft and silky and turquoisey and awesomely amazing. It was also at least three times as much as I wanted to spend, which, for the purpose of this post, makes it $1500.

"I can't buy it," I said to D #2. "But I can at least see how it looks on me."

Well, you know the rest of this story. It fit like Cinderella's fairy godmother had waved her magic wand.

"You have to get that dress," D #2 said, in no uncertain terms.

I swirled around before the dressing room mirror, trying to justify the unjustifiable. What if I didn't buy shoes? That would save me a considerable amount, right? And it's not like I won't wear it again. After all, my summer social calendar is always stock full of formal events.

In mere minutes I was leaping from, "I cannot get this dress," to "I don't know how I can NOT get this dress."

So I did.

I'm still waiting for that morning-after guilt to knock me flat. You know, the feeling you get when you wake up and realize you were drunk and dancing naked on the table top the night before?

But so far so good. Maybe I'm getting too old for guilt. Or maybe I just love that dress.