Whoever Invented Stretch Jeans Should Get a Nobel Prize

Senator Chew Toy

So the Republicans triumphed; Mitch McConnell, who my friend Val thinks looks like a chew toy, trumpeted; and the horrible conservative columnist for the SF Chronicle, Debra Saunders, said, "it was a beauteous night."

Wretched

Oh, to hell with her.  It's just one more election.  There will be another one in two years, and Hillary might even win.

I don't think I'm in denial about the election--I just went micro.  There are definitely some things to be glad about around here, such as the new cabinet that just got installed in my studio closet:

 Even without drawers, it's thrilling.

And a rose bloomed on a plant I thought had had it:

 Of course, we still have a toilet in the hall.

* * * * *

This morning in the dressing room at the pool, I overheard a couple of women talking. The first said that her mother died two weeks ago.  Then she said some things I couldn't hear, and the other woman responded, "Oh, you mean she chose to leave."

She chose to leave.  Which is how I've been thinking about Brittany Maynard, who ended her life last weekend at the age of 29,  because she had terminal brain cancer.

I went over and asked the woman who'd said that, a regal African American lady (I wondered if it was a  very wise cultural saying) if I'd heard her correctly.

"Yes," she said.  "My mother chose to leave a few years ago."

"Did she use drugs to do it?"  I asked.

"No," said the woman.  "She just gave up.  Too much cancer pain.  She didn't want to live anymore."

"I like that saying," I said.

"People can choose to leave, however they do it," she said.  "It's fine."  She said this in such a deeply grounded, gentle way that I felt she was giving all of us permission to choose to leave, if we find ourselves in the state her mother or Brittany Maynard were in.

(Of course, Debra Saunders railed against Brittany Maynard.)

* * * * *



 Yeah, right

 Claudia M. and I went to buy some clothes in Walnut Creek.  She's employed, so she needed some outfits that look pulled together, and she found a couple of shirts, blouses, and sweaters.  I bought two pairs of jeans and a t-shirt.

What on earth did we do before stretch jeans?  That's about as foreign to me now as wearing a garter belt every day of high school (or rolling my hair each night, for that matter.  Every. Single. Night.  From 1964 to 1968.).  So uncomfortable.

Clothes sizes now are so insane that I'm wearing a size or two smaller than I did in high school, and I weigh 15 pounds more (or 20,  let's be honest). When I pointed this out, the saleswoman nodded and said "It's American sizing."   I said, "What do you mean, obese?"  She said, "You're funny."  Politely.


She kept urging us into smaller sizes, because--guess what?--stretch fabric stretches out.  I thought, So what? They'll be comfortable.

Afterward, we went to Starbuck's for a drink and a couple of chocolate-coated graham crackers, since we were we were smaller than we thought.  Why not?

Shoe Shopping: The Reality

  
Next week we're going to England, where it can rain any day of the year, and then on to the Swiss Alps, where there could be snow on the ground.

In England in May 2011

After that,  we're going to Alaska, where it  also rains a lot, and we hope to do some hiking when we get off the cruise ship ONLY THREE TIMES, as Jerry keeps reminding me.  He's known the itinerary as long as I have, but he only recently put it together that there was going to be limited time on the ground to hunt for moths.

I needed some comfortable, waterproof hiking shoes.  Here's the catch--and it's embarrassing--I wear a size 11 shoe (why is this shameful for women?  As opposed to men--nobody cares if they have big feet.).

First to The Walk Shop in Berkeley, where a hollow-eyed but super-caffeinated woman badgered me into buying a men's size that was too wide and too short.  Took them back today.

Then to REI,  where an intense young man swore he'd find a pair of shoes that fit me. As he brought out box after box, he told me all about  how he's going to use coffee grounds to grow oyster mushrooms, which was interesting, but the size 11's were all too short.  After the eighth pair,  he gave up and went on a break.   

I came home and  called Nordstrom. Oh, yes, they assured me on the phone.  Of course they carry athletic shoes larger than size 11.  Come on down!

So I drove to Walnut Creek only to find out  they had a mere three pairs over size 11 and only two styles. Mercifully, one pair fit.   I was all set to buy them when I mentioned I'd be wearing them in the rain.

The salesman, a small-statured Asian-American man--what did he think of this Big-Footed woman?--looked pained and told me that these shoes would be ruined in the rain.  The fabric gets distorted.  Customers had complained.

I bought them anyway, because they fit.  That's what you do when you wear my size.

Nike Free 5.0+:  A bestseller but no good in the rain

In the meantime, this conscientious, empathic man trolled around on an iPad and found a pair of waterproof walking shoes available at the warehouse.  They should fit, but I'm leaving in 9 days.  Could this be expedited?

Apparently waterproof

 Yes.  For $5, the warehouse will get them to me by Monday.  They are just this side of gigantic. Don't know what I'll do with the first pair.  Return them, probably.

In the meantime, I found this pair of shoes sitting near me on a table in the shoe department.

And the style name?  "Reality."

Girl with Pearl Earring/Man Hiding from Camera

Girl with a Pearl Earring, Johannes Vermeer, c. 1665

Yesterday was the anniversary of our first date, which we always mark by going out to lunch.

The plan was to go to San Francisco to see the "Girl with a Pearl Earring" show at the de Young Museum and to have lunch at the Legion of Honor museum cafe.

It's a big show! Many prints by Rembrandt and other artists.  Usually, I gravitate to paintings, not prints--gimme the big oils, the color, the scope.  But the prints are wonderful--small, finely detailed portraits of peasants, artists, and noblemen that invite study.  I spent a lot of time with them, even the landscapes:

The Landscape with the Three Trees, Rembrandt van Rijn, 1643, etching, drypoint, and engraving.  Do you see the pair of lovers on the lower right?  Neither do I.

The Shell (Conus marmoreus), Rembrandt van Rijn, 1650, etching, drypoint, and engraving

Peapods and Insects. Jan van Kessell II, c. 1650, oil on copper.  This was Jerry's favorite, of course.

Then I got to the extensive show of paintings by Rembrandt and others, enough so that that part of the show could be an additional outing.  There's only one Vermeer, the pearl-earring girl, but it's worth going to see.  What a luminous, moving portrait it is!  It's a small painting in a big room, set off by itself, reminiscent of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre.  But without the crowd (although the show was crowded overall, even on a weekday).

We made our way to the Legion of Honor, where we had "grass-fed hotdogs"  for lunch (what in hell is a grass-fed hotdog?  A bunch of hotdogs in a field, grazing?).  Gave up on a walk at Land's End due to a sharp wind and billowing fog and made our way back to Berkeley.

Several blocks from our house, I spotted Marion Merrill, my boss years ago in the UC Berkeley Entomology Department, sitting at a bus stop.  We swooped in and collected her and drove her to where she wanted to go. She's almost 90, feisty and indomitable, like being near-blind and unable to drive.

Marion was a witness to that date 37 (or was it 38?) years ago.  I remember sitting in her office having a minor anxiety attack about what on earth I was going to talk about with this cranky professor.  She peered out her office window at the car as we drove out of the lot.  She said I looked scared.

I had Jerry take a picture of us yesterday:

Marion and me, March 12, 2013

Then--weren't we dutiful?--we went off to Berkeley Bowl, where Jerry had his resigned-to-a-mission-to-hell look.  I tried to capture it:

No dice.

Just a Wee Rant

I wanna be Maggie Smith!   No, no!   I wanna be dressed  by her stylist  in "Quartet"! 

I want to look elegant, even if I am OLD.

Yesterday I went to see "Quartet," which was just the ticket for a cold, cloudy afternoon:  charming and moving, even if it does teeter on the edge of making-silly-about-old-people-because-the-alternative-is-so-depressing.  The  music is glorious.

Maggie Smith plays a retired opera singer, and she is so beautiful, so elegant, with her long sweaters,  beautifully tailored loose pants,  striking necklaces,  and ladylike shoes.  (I looked her up on Wikipedia; she's 78.)  One of the other actresses, also elderly, reveals her crepey cleavage and her midriff rolls, but she's so charming and ditsy and adorable, that it seems fine.

I wouldn't choose it, but it's fine:

The stills I found from the movie don't do Maggie Smith's wardrobe justice.  She's not dowdy!   You need to go see it.

So,  is elegant and tailored still acceptable? Or is it all lumped under "dowdy?"  Does everything need to be skintight to be fashionable?  Can you buy elegant clothes for a reasonable amount of money?  Not super conservative--like Orvitz and I've had a go with them--but well-cut, flattering, with some pizazz?  And Spandex-free?

Do you have to wear Spanx all the time to camouflage midriff rolls?  Spanx are tight!  They're uncomfortable!  They mash your boobs!

I wonder.

Last month, a New York Times article about a new website for older women shopping for clothes gave me hope.  The 28-year-old who started Halsbrook.com says older women want to be "chic but not intimidating."  Her mother had some input.

But as examples of "mature women," the Times cited Michelle Obama and Madonna.  Need I say more?  I mean older than that and with imperfectly toned arms.  C'mon!

When I checked out Halsbrook, I found no clothes for under $300 and many for over $1,000.  And they're short.  And many are sleeveless.

Vitamin Shirts, Cotton Canvas Jacket, $315

Les Copains, Stretch Shirt Dress, $425.00

Peter Som, Vine Print Crepe de Chine Dress

, $2,145.00

Eileen Fisher clothes come to mind as an alternative, but they're expensive.  And sometimes I'd like a little more structure than what they have to offer.

Still looking.

Snapshots from the Week

I run around town in Mom jeans, a pair of sneakers, and occasionally a fanny pack--all major, major fashion faux pas--but vanity kicked in when I saw photos of myself with big brown age spots on my face.  I wanted them GONE.

I feel brave letting you see this

So yesterday I went to a very nice dermatologist who burned them away ($125, no insurance coverage),  and now I have puffy pink/purple spots all over my face.

Then I slunk around San Francisco wearing a sun visor set very low on my head (can't use sunscreen).   I caught sight of myself in the big windows of the Museum of Modern Art and thought, why is that woman wearing a sun visor in February?

Two weeks until I see positive results.

                                                                               2.

 I was in the city to see the Jay DeFeo and Jasper Johns shows at SFMOMA.  The postcard for the shows has been on my fridge for months, but I just discovered they're closing on Sunday.

I didn't know much about DeFeo, except that Squeak Carnwath, a favorite painter of mine, admired her.  And that she worked for eight years on a painting called "The Rose," which weighed over 1,000 pounds when she was finished it.

The Rose, 1958-1966, oil with wood and mica

Turns out DeFeo went to UC Berkeley,  taught at the SF Art Institute and then at Mills College, all the while making art out of a wide range of materials.  Some other pieces in the show:

Untitled, 1953,  re-purposed wood wrapped in torn fabric and coated with plaster.  Either an "unflyable kite," or homage to the floor plan of European cathedrals, which she much admired. Not a cross, per se.

Untitled, 1973, gelatin print and mixed media

She also did drawings, paintings, and collages of  things "she'd collected and held dear," including a dental bridge, cup handles, camera tripod,  and golf bag.  Her drawing, painting, and collage overlap.

Photo of Jay DeFeo working on The Rose

I wandered around the Jasper Johns show, thinking, oh, hell, I've seen his work for years, what's new?  There are some new paintings (he's 81 and still working), but I was taken with the numbers and letters and flags I learned about in art history and found them still fresh and compelling.

Light Bulb II, 1958.  Sculp-metal

Highway, 1959, oil on canvas.  Apparently, his impression of driving at night.

Flags, 1967-68.  Color lithograph

These two shows were organized by the Whitney Museum of Art and open in New York later this month.

And in the atrium of the museum, this stupendous piece by Gu Wenda:

                                                                                3.

After that, I marched up Market Street, trying to stay out of the sun.  My destination was the Vera Bradley store in San Francisco Centre.  

Not Fifth Avenue, but close

For years, I've traveled with the smaller toiletries kit below, jamming it so full it turns into a ball, which is hard to pack.  Everything that doesn't fit into it I cram into various Ziploc bags that I can never lay my hands on easily.

Finally, I said, to hell with this, I'm getting a big, new, CAPACIOUS toiletries kit, and a pretty one, not the REI-variety, which Jerry favors.   I researched online and found one made by Vera Bradley.   So yesterday, as a treat after inflicting purple spots all over my face, I went to buy one.

The mother ship and the rowboat?

Then I found the item below, which is a "jewelry folio."  I had a flash:  maybe I could fit all the chargers and USB wires for camera, MP3 player, computer, and phone into this thing.

Folded up

I took a chance and bought it.  At home, I filled the plastic pockets with cords and chargers, and it worked! No more tangle of stuff in Ziploc bags that slide around in my luggage!



Jewelry folio turns tech-tote

                                                                                4.

Sometimes I read memoirs, because they tend to lull me to sleep quicker than fiction does.  I just finished two that make me want to send notes to the writers, saying,  "the story is not what you think it is." 

To Stephanie Madoff Mack, one of Bernard Madoff's daughters-in-law, I wanted to say: "Yes, your father-in-law was very bad, no question about it, but, honestly, he's not to blame for everything in your life...and by the way, you're still awfully privileged."

And to Leslie Maitland, a former New York Times investigative reporter who wrote about her mother's family's escape from Germany, I'd say, "This story is not about your mother's teenage sweetheart whom she left behind in France and reconciled with 50+ years later, but how Hitler chipped away at the rights of Jews in Germany through the 1930's and your family's brave and incremental escape from Germany, through France, then Cuba, finally landing in the U.S."

Someone sold Maitland on the romantic angle as most marketable, I think, but the back story of her family was much more compelling to me.  She's done a lot of research on the social history of the times.


                                                                                      5.

Dept. of Audio update:  Yesterday Audible.com sent an e-mail saying that,  "After further review, 'Excellent Women by Barbara Pym' is currently unavailable in a digital audio download format for the US region."

The "US region."  That would be a country.

I may cancel.  Readers sent numerous suggestions for downloading free podcasts from the BBC and NPR, including "This American Life," which I love, and that may do it for me.

Love Ira (even if he's blurry).  And did you hear the one about his crazy dog?

Snapshots from the Week

Yesterday I went to San Francisco for a haircut, and who was standing at the desk paying her bill but Nancy Pelosi.   She was wearing bright-blue heels with a gray-blue pantsuit, and she had a Secret Service agent with her.   My hairdresser says she is a very pleasant person who is on her cell phone at all times.

Loved the bright blue shoes. 



                                                                        2.

I'm bogged down on the quilt I'm working on, so I stopped by Britex after my haircut to check out fabric possibilities.  Nothing grabbed me, but I recommend their shopping bags, especially in these days of bring-one-or-pay-for-another.

I carried an old one around with me all day with my lunch  (dried fruit, almonds, carrot sticks, and half a peanut butter sandwich--what would Nancy P. say?).  Later,  I added small things I bought,  like overpriced hair conditioner and pink goop cover the bags under my eyes.

These bags are sturdy, with cloth handles, but you have to buy a certain amount to get one of these nice ones.  Being a fabric-o-holic helps.

And with a snappy red interior

                                                                      3.

It's hard to describe how charming this movie is: "Romantics Anonymous."

Cover of the French-release DVD

Years ago, my friend Debbie said it was hard for "two shys to get together."  This is about two endearingly neurotic shys who happen to be chocolatiers trying to connect.  Jerry really liked it, too.  You watch it with a smile on your face.


                                                                          4.

                                                                             

In April, we're going to Texas for a week. I've been checking out airfares, and the idea of flying Economy with no leg room, no crammed overhead bins, and my elbows tucked to my sides for 3-1/2 hours is very off-putting.

 Jerry can rise above the discomfort and hassle,  but I get bogged down and very cranky.  Not a good start for a trip.

One of my favorite New Yorker covers sums it up:

                                                                                5.

This week was the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, and I had a thought after reading several blogs written by young Catholic mothers who deplore that decision.

I wonder if underlying all the philosophical, religious, and moral arguments for and against abortion, it's a very personal fear of loss.  I include myself in this. 

It's loss of potential motherhood (infertile couples who want children to adopt), loss of their own children (as mothers look at their babies and try to imagine a world without them), loss of control over their lives (pro-choice advocates who don't want anyone else to control their fertility).  I've read profiles of male leaders in the pro-life movement who, it turns out, where almost aborted by their single or troubled mothers; for them, it's near-loss of their existence.

I wish everyone could be reassured:  No one's going to take away adoption or a beloved child.  No one--I hope--is going to take away a woman's right to control her fertility.   I don't know what to say to the nearly-aborted, and maybe that's part of the problem.  Choice would seem to allay so many of these fears, but that's not an acceptable idea to many.

Nobody's neutral on this topic

                                                                                6.

A buck-up on these winter days when the garden's full of weeds but not blooms:

A pot of miniature daffodils on the kitchen window sill.  I've nursed them along for two weeks.  Those, plus the ritual of lighting a very lightly scented candle each night while we're cooking dinner, have been very soothing.  I'm turning woo-woo.