The Sunday New York Times Style section used to be one of my favorite treats. The profiled wedding of the week, the Modern Love essay, the celebrity dish, the vagaries of (expensive) Manhattan real estate. Now it seems to me--could it be the catastrophe in Japan, the war in Libya, the cuts to education right here?---to be the least appealing section of that newspaper. It pisses me off every Sunday morning.
This week there were ads for a $2990 handbag, $2920 diamond pave earrings, and a gold Gucci clutch with a tassel for an unspecified amount. There was a photo of one of Danielle Steel's daughters, described as "known for gracing countless best-dressed lists," modeling an outfit that consisted of black leggings,a black shell, and a black lace skirt. A few years ago, I read that Steel's daughters buy new wardrobes for every season. Missing this week was an especially irritating column that consists of a celebrity, often in the fashion world, listing every stitch of designer clothing (names supplied but not prices) she wore for a week, often more than one outfit a day.
Who is the audience for this? Who can drop $3000 on a handbag? What world do these people live in? Is it all for Wall Street-ers? Have these people no shame?
Thanks for listening.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Old Friends
Yesterday I met up with a high school chum I hadn't seen in 40 years, and I'm telling you, I'm beginning to think you can rehab your high school experience if you live long enough. I'm humbled by this. It was really more convenient to package up my high school years, the slights and humiliations, the loneliness, the wanting to be popular, toss this package into the far corner of my mental attic, and tell myself that what happened between 1964-1968 did not matter. I was a grown-up now, and to hell with it.
Then I found I could snoop on Facebook, scout out classmates without their knowing it. I could see photos of them at 60. I could guess at their marital status, find out what kind of job they had, and sometimes see pictures of their children. People looked older and worn. I look older and worn.
I kept coming back to the page of one friend, Lin, whom I'd always liked but lost touch with. I came back to this page many times. I studied her picture. I debated, and then one afternoon I "friended" her. We caught up via e-mail. Yesterday she came to Berkeley from San Jose, and we had lunch.
Well, she is the same funny, sensible, sensitive, thoughtful person I remembered. Like everyone who's 60, we've each been battered a bit. We've lost our parents and cleaned out and sold off the houses we grew up in. People we loved have gotten sick and died, some unexpectedly. But we've each been blessed with a long-term marriage, and Lin has a daughter, a beautiful girl of 24 in whose face I see Lin 40 years ago, particularly the shape of her smile. It's nostalgic for me, looking at a picture of Lin's daughter.
I don't know if I'll look up anyone else from high school, certainly not the mean girls, but I'm thinking twice about waving off that entire era of my life. My friend Claudia, a therapist, says this could be a "corrective emotional experience." And I got to meet up again with someone I really like.
Then I found I could snoop on Facebook, scout out classmates without their knowing it. I could see photos of them at 60. I could guess at their marital status, find out what kind of job they had, and sometimes see pictures of their children. People looked older and worn. I look older and worn.
I kept coming back to the page of one friend, Lin, whom I'd always liked but lost touch with. I came back to this page many times. I studied her picture. I debated, and then one afternoon I "friended" her. We caught up via e-mail. Yesterday she came to Berkeley from San Jose, and we had lunch.
Well, she is the same funny, sensible, sensitive, thoughtful person I remembered. Like everyone who's 60, we've each been battered a bit. We've lost our parents and cleaned out and sold off the houses we grew up in. People we loved have gotten sick and died, some unexpectedly. But we've each been blessed with a long-term marriage, and Lin has a daughter, a beautiful girl of 24 in whose face I see Lin 40 years ago, particularly the shape of her smile. It's nostalgic for me, looking at a picture of Lin's daughter.
I don't know if I'll look up anyone else from high school, certainly not the mean girls, but I'm thinking twice about waving off that entire era of my life. My friend Claudia, a therapist, says this could be a "corrective emotional experience." And I got to meet up again with someone I really like.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Seven Hills of Rome
Yesterday I felt I hiked them all, poring over travel guides and ThingsYou Must Not Miss: The Pantheon, the Roman Forum, the Colosseum, the Spanish Steps, the Vatican Museums, the Piazza del Campidoglio. And then there are many, many things that only a damned fool WOULD miss: the Capitoline Museums, the Villa Borghese, and numerous churches with priceless art you illuminate by dropping coins (note: be sure to bring) into a slot to turn on lights. That would be overscheduled damned fools such as ourselves.
I made lists. I read up on hours of admission and tickets and the historical significance of various ruins. I read that I can't wear shorts or sleeveless tops in churches (ha! not a chance and it's not because of reverence). I read that Andy Warhol commented that, "Rome, Italy, is an example of what happens when the buildings in a city last too long."
I have a bossy Rome guide that assumes you have a BA in Art History and a thirst for viewing paintings that cannot be slaked, and a second, laidback guide that merely suggests where you might want to go. I came to a paragraph in the second guide that advises starting with a simple walk in Rome, anywhere you like. I began to breathe more deeply. Walking I can do. In fact, wandering is even better, less businesslike, more likely to yield the serendipitous discovery. I plotted where our hotel is, not far from the Trevi Fountain, and then various Must-See's and found most are within walking distance. A wander could be quite fruitful.
Turns out we're in Rome over Easter weekend. We arrive on Good Friday. The pope himself makes a trek up Capitoline Hill, I believe, and that evening and we could join thousands of pilgrims who line his route, a once-in-a lifetime experience. Or we could sit in the garden of our hotel and drink wine. Anne Lamott advises writers to "take their sticky hands off the controls," and I think I'm going to try it.
There's a fine line between prudent planning vs. obsessing on every detail so you're never caught short. Travel guide, even the laidback ones, have a frantic quality, of the writer thinking of just one more thing, finger in the air, you really have to see. Hell with it. I'm going to wander.
I made lists. I read up on hours of admission and tickets and the historical significance of various ruins. I read that I can't wear shorts or sleeveless tops in churches (ha! not a chance and it's not because of reverence). I read that Andy Warhol commented that, "Rome, Italy, is an example of what happens when the buildings in a city last too long."
I have a bossy Rome guide that assumes you have a BA in Art History and a thirst for viewing paintings that cannot be slaked, and a second, laidback guide that merely suggests where you might want to go. I came to a paragraph in the second guide that advises starting with a simple walk in Rome, anywhere you like. I began to breathe more deeply. Walking I can do. In fact, wandering is even better, less businesslike, more likely to yield the serendipitous discovery. I plotted where our hotel is, not far from the Trevi Fountain, and then various Must-See's and found most are within walking distance. A wander could be quite fruitful.
Turns out we're in Rome over Easter weekend. We arrive on Good Friday. The pope himself makes a trek up Capitoline Hill, I believe, and that evening and we could join thousands of pilgrims who line his route, a once-in-a lifetime experience. Or we could sit in the garden of our hotel and drink wine. Anne Lamott advises writers to "take their sticky hands off the controls," and I think I'm going to try it.
There's a fine line between prudent planning vs. obsessing on every detail so you're never caught short. Travel guide, even the laidback ones, have a frantic quality, of the writer thinking of just one more thing, finger in the air, you really have to see. Hell with it. I'm going to wander.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Strike out!
Yesterday my sister and I went shopping for a few clothes for my upcoming trip to England and Italy, part of which will be on a cruise ship, where I will not be allowed to wear jeans in the dining room. I have one travel skirt, crinkly fabric with a delightfully forgiving elastic waist, but I'm really, truly tired of it. My one pair of slacks is, of course, black, and Madeleine fretted that they did not fit so well in the bum. So we made a shopping list: a couple of skirts and a pair or two of slacks. Off we went to Walnut Creek.
We returned a few hours later cranky and hostile and WITHOUT A SINGLE SHOPPING BAG. Madeleine was referring to "the bastards at Nordstrom's," and I was wondering where in hell women of a certain age were supposed to find clothes. And: when in hell are the seventies finally going to be over?
A few current fashion trends:
1. Pants cut wide at the top and very narrow at the ankle. This is not a flattering look. Most people already have wider waists and bums than ankles. Didn't find a single pair that fit or were even remotely flattering.
2. Skirts for cheerleaders! Oh, boy! Very short, gathered skirts. I think you wear these items with tights. We were aghast and agog. Many, many such skirts.
3. Pencil skirts--narrow and to the knee, or more commonly, well above the knee. The problem is, by 60, your knees are shot. They do not excite or allure. Also, pencil skirts are narrow at the top, which means they are not comfortable, especially when you sit down.
4. Tight, tailored short jackets with seventies-style stitching and a complete lack of comfortable slouch. They're rather dressy, or what Madeleine refers to as "professional- looking," meaning for the office. I have no office I can't wear a bathrobe in.
5. Sheaths, as worn by Michelle Obama, who has tremendously toned arms. Whatever it is about sheaths, they look better on the hanger than they do on me. Also, sheaths are quite short.
All of the above are designed to be worn with very high heels, maybe flats, but not any kind of shoe you'd want to wear wandering around cobblestone streets. Madeleine and I share one pair of high heels, bought in 2004, in case one of us is invited to a wedding or cocktail party. They currently reside in San Jose.
We swept through Nordstrom's, Macy's, J. Jill, Chico's, and Eileen Fisher, a pair of increasingly pissed-off and outspoken women in jeans and black sweaters, but then, when you're old you're allowed to be cranky. Then we went to See's, came out with treats, and watched passersby. Women our age (57 and 60) invariably wore a) jeans, which cover a multitude of imperfections and are comfortable, or b) fashionable clothes that were too tight. Many young girls staggered by in heels or worse, those very high wedgies.
We packed it in and drove back to Berkeley. Madeleine, the chic sister, the designer, the one who pushes for a little more "edge," was puzzled and outraged. She pushed for checking out a boutique near my house, and we did, but we'd lost heart. We came home and watched "Nurse Jackie," who was even more fed up than we were.
Anyway, I've come up with a solution for my cruise wardrobe: room service.
We returned a few hours later cranky and hostile and WITHOUT A SINGLE SHOPPING BAG. Madeleine was referring to "the bastards at Nordstrom's," and I was wondering where in hell women of a certain age were supposed to find clothes. And: when in hell are the seventies finally going to be over?
A few current fashion trends:
1. Pants cut wide at the top and very narrow at the ankle. This is not a flattering look. Most people already have wider waists and bums than ankles. Didn't find a single pair that fit or were even remotely flattering.
2. Skirts for cheerleaders! Oh, boy! Very short, gathered skirts. I think you wear these items with tights. We were aghast and agog. Many, many such skirts.
3. Pencil skirts--narrow and to the knee, or more commonly, well above the knee. The problem is, by 60, your knees are shot. They do not excite or allure. Also, pencil skirts are narrow at the top, which means they are not comfortable, especially when you sit down.
4. Tight, tailored short jackets with seventies-style stitching and a complete lack of comfortable slouch. They're rather dressy, or what Madeleine refers to as "professional- looking," meaning for the office. I have no office I can't wear a bathrobe in.
5. Sheaths, as worn by Michelle Obama, who has tremendously toned arms. Whatever it is about sheaths, they look better on the hanger than they do on me. Also, sheaths are quite short.
All of the above are designed to be worn with very high heels, maybe flats, but not any kind of shoe you'd want to wear wandering around cobblestone streets. Madeleine and I share one pair of high heels, bought in 2004, in case one of us is invited to a wedding or cocktail party. They currently reside in San Jose.
We swept through Nordstrom's, Macy's, J. Jill, Chico's, and Eileen Fisher, a pair of increasingly pissed-off and outspoken women in jeans and black sweaters, but then, when you're old you're allowed to be cranky. Then we went to See's, came out with treats, and watched passersby. Women our age (57 and 60) invariably wore a) jeans, which cover a multitude of imperfections and are comfortable, or b) fashionable clothes that were too tight. Many young girls staggered by in heels or worse, those very high wedgies.
We packed it in and drove back to Berkeley. Madeleine, the chic sister, the designer, the one who pushes for a little more "edge," was puzzled and outraged. She pushed for checking out a boutique near my house, and we did, but we'd lost heart. We came home and watched "Nurse Jackie," who was even more fed up than we were.
Anyway, I've come up with a solution for my cruise wardrobe: room service.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Responses
The response to my question about traveling vs. socking money away has been tremendous, especially from the No Problems, the Quilt Minigroup of Great Reason and Good Sense. Virtually no one votes for socking away money at the risk of missing joy/memories/adventure, within reason, of course. You have to make your premiums and your co-pays.
Of special note: I have two friends who are recently widowed and both are overwhelmingly in favor of building memories NOW. Another friend adamantly opposes supporting her dentist's second home at Tahoe. I don't have a very complete survey, but in general women to be more in support of the enjoy-it-now approach than men are. Statistically men die first: does this make them protective of their wives or just contrary?
The way the voting played out makes me feel better about a secret I'm harboring. We're using miles to upgrade to Business Class on international routes, and that now requires a hefty co-pay. I called United Airlines to find it out if I really have to commit the co-pay act right under Jerry's nose at the airport the day we fly. They said yes. My travel agent said no. I think a woman ticket agent may be the answer.
Of special note: I have two friends who are recently widowed and both are overwhelmingly in favor of building memories NOW. Another friend adamantly opposes supporting her dentist's second home at Tahoe. I don't have a very complete survey, but in general women to be more in support of the enjoy-it-now approach than men are. Statistically men die first: does this make them protective of their wives or just contrary?
The way the voting played out makes me feel better about a secret I'm harboring. We're using miles to upgrade to Business Class on international routes, and that now requires a hefty co-pay. I called United Airlines to find it out if I really have to commit the co-pay act right under Jerry's nose at the airport the day we fly. They said yes. My travel agent said no. I think a woman ticket agent may be the answer.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Voiceless
Due to a cold, I've lost my voice. It's very weird trying to force as much air as possible behind my voice--as though I'm shouting full blast--and achieve only a hoarse whisper. Ordering in Starbuck's today, my real voice suddenly boomed through, full volume, as I said the word "soy." It was embarrassing. I felt like a teenage boy who'd lost charge of his voice.
Here's someone whose voice I wished were lost for awhile today: A woman named Marjorie, with a southern accent and a slick vocabulary, arguing and re-arguing her point on NPR that Planned Parenthood deserves to lose federal funding because it encourages child sex slavery. I heard it, and heard it, and HEARD it. She was agile, hopping around to head off counter-arguments, and I felt beaten around the head with an umbrella by the time she mercifully left the air. We all know what she's really opposed to, but in the meantime no one can argue for child sex slavery, and she's going to run with it.
Here's someone whose voice I wished were lost for awhile today: A woman named Marjorie, with a southern accent and a slick vocabulary, arguing and re-arguing her point on NPR that Planned Parenthood deserves to lose federal funding because it encourages child sex slavery. I heard it, and heard it, and HEARD it. She was agile, hopping around to head off counter-arguments, and I felt beaten around the head with an umbrella by the time she mercifully left the air. We all know what she's really opposed to, but in the meantime no one can argue for child sex slavery, and she's going to run with it.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Time
We're in a bit of a fry-up here regarding the outlay of money to take a cruise. We've just had to make the final payment.
The question is: Do you save every last cent for what might befall you in old age? Or do you spend like a demon and end up destitute before The Final Check Out? My dad always said my sister and I would inherit not much, due to all his and my mother's money going to "enema bags" in their old age; in fact, they had some left over, which my sister and I were grateful to receive.
Jerry, the fiscal conservative, feels that we should spend no money that's been tucked away, ever. Saving is a goal unto itself. He's thinking no more trips for a couple of years after this one. I say, but in the mean time the clock is ticking.
I'd appreciate some votes on this matter.
A related story: At the hairdresser's the other day, the man who cuts my hair motioned for me to look at the woman in the next chair, a small, older woman. He said she had worn the same jeans and Nike shoes to weekly hair appointments for 15 years. When the woman left the chair, he beckoned to her haircutter, and asked him to verify that the woman had indeed worn the same jeans and shoes for 15 years. Oh, yes, said the man. It's true. And she's quite wealthy. Recently, her 37-year old Maytag washer had given out. This lady had done a calculation and figured out that at her age (69) she would do better to go to a laundromat the rest of her life than to pay for a new washing machine.
I was stunned. Had she looked at an actuarial table? And had she ever taken a cruise?
The question is: Do you save every last cent for what might befall you in old age? Or do you spend like a demon and end up destitute before The Final Check Out? My dad always said my sister and I would inherit not much, due to all his and my mother's money going to "enema bags" in their old age; in fact, they had some left over, which my sister and I were grateful to receive.
Jerry, the fiscal conservative, feels that we should spend no money that's been tucked away, ever. Saving is a goal unto itself. He's thinking no more trips for a couple of years after this one. I say, but in the mean time the clock is ticking.
I'd appreciate some votes on this matter.
A related story: At the hairdresser's the other day, the man who cuts my hair motioned for me to look at the woman in the next chair, a small, older woman. He said she had worn the same jeans and Nike shoes to weekly hair appointments for 15 years. When the woman left the chair, he beckoned to her haircutter, and asked him to verify that the woman had indeed worn the same jeans and shoes for 15 years. Oh, yes, said the man. It's true. And she's quite wealthy. Recently, her 37-year old Maytag washer had given out. This lady had done a calculation and figured out that at her age (69) she would do better to go to a laundromat the rest of her life than to pay for a new washing machine.
I was stunned. Had she looked at an actuarial table? And had she ever taken a cruise?
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The Duchess and I
The Duchess of Devonshire and I go way back. That would be the 11th Duchess, Deborah, or "Debo" as she's known to intimates. I discovered her in 1985, when Chatsworth, the Devonshires' ancestral home, located in Derbyshire, England, was featured in Architectural Digest. There she was in the Blue Drawing Room dressed in high-necked white blouse, knitted vest, skirt, pearls, shiny black oxfords, AND BLACK KNEE SOCKS. That's what caught my eye. She looked poised as all get-out in this slightly preposterous get-up. She's now 90, and she thinks what she thinks.
I just finished her memoir, "Wait for Me!", published last year and which I could not resist buying, and I think she and I may have reached the end of the road. Yes, she's one of the six Mitford sisters, including Nancy the novelist and Jessica who crusaded against the American way of death. Yes, she calls the Queen Mum "Sugar" and Prince Charles "Friend." She knew everyone, danced with JFK in the thirties and attended both his inauguration and funeral. She's been painted by Lucien Freud, and she had tea with Hitler before the war due to her sister Unity's status as a fascist groupie.
She and her husband revived Chatsworth against all odds and a 97% estate tax; you can now pay $26.50 to visit it and its gardens and farm shop and Orangerie. Not to make fun of this: they saved a monument.
In her world, everyone has a nickname--her parents were Muv and Farve--and everyone is thrifty, not counting tiaras in the bank vault and a Victor Steibel wedding dress made of 80 yards of white tulle. She's voted Conservative her entire life, and she thinks people make too much of grief. "Grief is a part of life. The disaster of someone dying was talked about for a bit and the person was mourned, but you didn't go on about it and take pills and have to be counselled." We parted company here very quickly.
She also commented that she rarely watches television: "I can't look at anything sad or violent or anything with heaving sheets...so that rules out most of telly." I have days like that.
She's privileged and frank and, to my mind, blind to life as it is lived by most people. Still, I have to pass on a story she tells, which is hilarious and rings true. She comments on the perils of aging, how she now lacks the stamina to run uphill and needs a hearing aid, and then adds, "Other things go wrong. Paddy Leigh Fermor [her friend] came to stay, got into the bath, looked down at the tap end and to his dismay saw that both feet had turned black. 'Oh, God,' he thought, 'teeth, ears, and eyes are wonky and now my feet. ' He need not have worried. He had got into the bath with his socks on."
She has a sense of humor, anyway.
I just finished her memoir, "Wait for Me!", published last year and which I could not resist buying, and I think she and I may have reached the end of the road. Yes, she's one of the six Mitford sisters, including Nancy the novelist and Jessica who crusaded against the American way of death. Yes, she calls the Queen Mum "Sugar" and Prince Charles "Friend." She knew everyone, danced with JFK in the thirties and attended both his inauguration and funeral. She's been painted by Lucien Freud, and she had tea with Hitler before the war due to her sister Unity's status as a fascist groupie.
She and her husband revived Chatsworth against all odds and a 97% estate tax; you can now pay $26.50 to visit it and its gardens and farm shop and Orangerie. Not to make fun of this: they saved a monument.
In her world, everyone has a nickname--her parents were Muv and Farve--and everyone is thrifty, not counting tiaras in the bank vault and a Victor Steibel wedding dress made of 80 yards of white tulle. She's voted Conservative her entire life, and she thinks people make too much of grief. "Grief is a part of life. The disaster of someone dying was talked about for a bit and the person was mourned, but you didn't go on about it and take pills and have to be counselled." We parted company here very quickly.
She also commented that she rarely watches television: "I can't look at anything sad or violent or anything with heaving sheets...so that rules out most of telly." I have days like that.
She's privileged and frank and, to my mind, blind to life as it is lived by most people. Still, I have to pass on a story she tells, which is hilarious and rings true. She comments on the perils of aging, how she now lacks the stamina to run uphill and needs a hearing aid, and then adds, "Other things go wrong. Paddy Leigh Fermor [her friend] came to stay, got into the bath, looked down at the tap end and to his dismay saw that both feet had turned black. 'Oh, God,' he thought, 'teeth, ears, and eyes are wonky and now my feet. ' He need not have worried. He had got into the bath with his socks on."
She has a sense of humor, anyway.
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