It's All About The Outfit

     Some day, hopefully in about ten years give or take, my only daughter will decide to marry a wonderful, kind (maybe even rich!) man. I will be thrilled and will cry at the thought of my little girl walking down the aisle. It’s too bad I won’t be there to see it, because I know she will be a beautiful bride. No, I don’t have some dread disease that will take me away before the blissful day; it’s just that I plan to offer her a substantial sum of money to run away and tie the knot in some exotic locale, far from my prying eyes. I’m sure that it will be worth every penny and will add years to our loving relationship.

     Every fall we repeat the same routine. As soon as Sophie’s birthday festivities are completed mid- September, she starts planning her costume for Halloween. When she was little, things were easy; we just went to Toys-R-Us and bought a glittery costume, which was worn in dress-up play around the house until the big day. No tears, no second-guessing. Lately, no such luck.

     For teenagers, Halloween costumes must be original and they must be unique; but never, never, should the costume require others to guess your creative intentions or for that matter, encourage them to even look at you. The costume must be instantly recognizable, yet completely different from anything that anyone else in the neighborhood might be wearing. If it’s a duplicate, that's bad; but if it makes anyone actually notice you, that is infinitely worse. The dichotomy of these two lines of reasoning (?) makes me want to scream.

     Two weeks ago, Sophie decided to attend a Halloween party as singer Amy Winehouse, with her friend and sidekick as Britney Spears. Think of it as North-South White Trash night. It sounded like a funny idea which wouldn’t cost much and could be accomplished with a few clothing items already on hand, plus a can of Red Bull for Amy and some big curlers for Brit’s hair. But that idea was abandoned for some mysterious reason, and others were bandied about. Finally, at T-minus-7 days, the decision was made to go as either Galinda (from the musical Wicked), or Barbie. Either one would require some class of sparkly, pink outfit. Little girls never really grow up, do they?

     In pursuit of the perfect, inexpensive, Galinda/Barbie dress, we drove to the Goodwill store. This is a sad, sad place, and proves that the slow economy has taken its toll on the poor in our land. Sophie reported that previous excursions to Goodwill for theater costumes had proved quite rewarding, with full racks of sequined gowns and ghastly bridesmaid castoffs. Today, nothing; only a few tired dresses hung on the racks. No ruby slippers or pink handbags were available at all.

     So on to similar situations at the Salvation Army and the Genesis Thrift stores. Our last hope, three hours and forty-seven miles later, was Buffalo Exchange. There we found the perfect pink satin bubble dress and sparkly pink stiletto heels to turn a leggy blond into a life-sized Barbie. All she needed to complete the illusion was a spray tan and a guy to dress up as plastic-haired Ken.

     I was ready and eager with my credit card. For $19.50 we could justify the afternoon of driving and searching and hang a “Mission Accomplished” banner across the back of the Honda. But no. At the last minute, Sophie decided that the Barbie concept was flawed and no one would understand. I stood helpless at the checkout; all I could do was offer money and support. The choice was hers.

     We left the store empty handed and silent. It was a long ride home, and I’m not sure who was more upset. All I wanted was for her to be happy, but in hindsight maybe it’s just not that easy. With choice comes responsibility, and that’s a tough thing to accept, whether you’re 15 or 45.

     Ted says I enabled her, and should have called off the chase at the second store. Maybe so, but I find it ironic that he has since agreed to help her find a cowboy hat and chaps for her most recent costume idea. We’ll see if he drags into the house later this afternoon looking frantically for the wine bottle. On second thought, maybe I won’t have to miss her wedding after all. I’ll just let Dad take her to pick out a dress.

Unlawful Restraint

     God is going to smite me. This afternoon I stopped by a local consignment store, where I browsed for an outfit to wear to an upcoming formal party. As most of my friends know, I’m slowly succeeding in my weight loss effort, which makes the resale store a great option for something I might only wear once. But my recent dieting victories sometime make me overly optimistic about what size clothing I can actually fit into; this, I believe, was the root of today’s problem.

     I found a lovely chiffon blouse which perfectly complemented a black skirt I already own. It still carried the original tags, so I could tell it had been quite expensive. But it must have been on the rack for some time, because even the second-hand price had been discounted. My bargain-loving genes perked up, and I decided to try it on. It was a size Medium.

     The blouse had a zipper running down the center two-thirds of one side seam—a common feature of ladies’ eveningwear. Any woman who has worn a garment of this type knows very well that the zipper placement makes it much easier to put on than to take off, and that extracting oneself may require significant bodily contortions. This is true even if the piece in question fits you. Even then, it is advisable to have a good friend or husband nearby, just in case.

     I stepped into the shop’s tiny dressing room and wiggled into the blouse. It was a little snug. I stepped out to look in the three-way mirror and, ever the optimist, determined that if I could lose another five pounds before the party, it might be a go.

     Back in the fitting room, I tried to lift the blouse over my head. No luck. The top was too tight, and the room was so small that I couldn’t maneuver my arms sufficiently upward to work myself free. I tried tugging and twisting, and can only imagine the noises I made in the process. Still nothing. I was trapped.

     The only other people in the shop were a teenage cashier and the male shop owner. I considered calling out for the girl to come help me, but ruled the idea out on the grounds that 1) she might possibly know one of my kids, and 2) she would be even more embarrassed than me if she had to help rescue me from the blouse. The man was totally out of the question. I was wearing a hot-pink bra.

     Now sometimes good people have to make tough choices, and at that moment I honestly felt I had few options. I could have walked up to the cashier wearing the blouse, paid for it, and cut it off when I got home, but I just couldn’t bear the shame. So I grabbed the fabric and ripped it open at both ends of the zipper. It tore pretty easily, but that was probably my adrenaline at work. I’ve heard of people performing all manner of amazing feats in traumatic situations such as this.

     Too mortified to admit my shameful secret, I replaced the blouse on the hanger with the torn seam carefully camouflaged and smuggled it back onto the rack between the other items I had brought into the dressing room. I quietly ducked out the door as another customer was coming in. The phrase “banned for life” flitted through my mind.

     When I sheepishly shared this tale with Ted after dinner, his only response was, “Do you make this stuff up?” Sadly, no. I only wish I had that much imagination.

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Epilogue: After an evening of soul-searching, I returned the next day and purchased the ruined blouse, paying in cash. I did not confess my crime.

Searching for Poe-Now That’s Scary

     Today is the 160th anniversary of the death of author Edgar Allan Poe. I’m sure you’re asking yourself why I know, or even care, about such obscure trivia, but hey, I’ve always had a thing for interesting but otherwise useless information. The real truth is that I learned about the milestone this past weekend while visiting the Baltimore/DC area. Poe lived, worked, and died in Baltimore, so the city’s tourist literature makes a big deal about him. Sophie complains that we drag her to every art museum in every city we visit, so as a compromise we decided to do a literary tour instead. But like a Poe tale, not everything we encountered on our journey that day was quite what we were expecting.

     One weekend too early for the re-enactment of Poe’s funeral and other “official” events, we set off on a self-guided tour, with info gleaned from the internet and guided by the schizophrenic GPS unit in our rental car. First stop was the Annabel Lee Tavern (named for the sorrowful, last poem Poe wrote before his death at age 40) where we planned to have lunch. When we arrived, we discovered it was more of a bar than a restaurant and didn’t open till evening. The proprietor was washing down the sidewalk with bleach-not an auspicious sign. Sophie was too miffed to even let us take her picture out front.

     We moved on to the Poe Museum, located in the actual house where Poe lived with his aunt and wife (he married his 13 year old cousin--more weirdness). As we approached the house, the neighborhood became increasingly ominous, and not in a gothic way. Madame GPS kept changing her mind mid-street, as if she weren’t sure we really needed to go there at all. To our chagrin, we found ourselves in The Projects--the Baltimore, Murder-Capital-of-the-US Projects—and locked the car’s doors. Sophie asked why Poe had lived in such a bad part of town.

     Across from Poe’s tiny, shuttered row house, a security guard sat barricaded in his truck. As we slowly passed, he motioned for us to roll down the window. He called out,“Looking for the Poe house?” I can’t imagine how he guessed. We didn’t want to leave the car, and all our luggage, unattended even long enough to go see if the place was open.

     Finally, we tried to find the Poe gravesite. The address was even deeper in the ‘hood than the Museum, so we (wisely, I believe) abandoned our plan for the macabre photo op next to Poe’s tombstone. We feared that even if we didn’t lose our lives in that cemetery, we might likely lose our wallets and cellphones, or worse, the car.

     Four hours after we began the Poe pilgrimage, we ended up at the place we didn’t even intend to go that day: The Baltimore Museum of Art. Among the Matisses and Picassos, we were relieved to find a temporary exhibit of Poe illustrations by famous artists. It wasn’t the tour we had expected, but at that point, it had to do. Sophie didn’t protest. One word sums up my intentions regarding future plans for a Poe tour, and Baltimore in general: Nevermore.