Now, I'm a Boobleiver

by Cathy

Oprah told me to do it. Katie told me to do it. Countless magazine articles told me to do it. But did I listen? I wanted to. Really. I just never made it a priority - until I had to.

One of the perks of my job is to check out new places, products and things before others do, so that I can write about them in the hopes that those others either buy them or at least, check them out. So when the opportunity came along to get a professional bra fitting (with a complimentary bra in my properly fitted size, valued at $65) my "girls" bounced at the chance. They've been left hangin' there far too long.

Wacoal wowza! This bra is my new breast friend!

The results? Like 80% of women out there, I was definitely wearing the wrong bra size. In fact, like 80% of women out there, my current size wasn't even close to what I should be wearing. No wonder  the bra's backside was riding high and my boobage was riding low and why I tugged and pulled and lifted and adjusted all day. And overall? I just looked and felt hunched and schlumpy.

For the sake of science, womanhood and perky silhouettes everywhere, I will reveal my "numbers" to the world:

Current size: 36 B/36 C
Actual size: 34 DDD

Triple, freaking, D.

"Why are you so surprised?" exclaimed my husband along with a few of my friends. "Your boobs are huge!"

Okay my boobs aren't small but they aren't as ample as some cleavages sported by other au natural and faux boobers combined. But never in a million years did I think I was a TRIPLE D.
DDD
D. D. D.

After countless "Are you sure(s)???" from me to the fitter, she patiently explained it all to me -  the full, yet sexy coverage, the lack of side-boob spillage, the point at the exact spot on my back where the bra line is meant to hit, the fact that even though the bra felt tight, I still had plenty of give on the band and had me take a step back to examine my overall lifted, youthful silhouette. "See?" she marveled, pointing at my breasts. "This is where things should be," she said, eyes crinkling with delight.

She also matter-of-factly told me that I was putting on my bra incorrectly (we must bend over and spill into the cups naturally) and washing incorrectly (we must hand wash and air dry, but ain't nobody really got time for dat). And those hooks, by the way? They are meant to expand with your bra. You are to start with the outermost set of hooks first and once you get to the third and last set of hooks and you're ridin' and saggin', it's time to say ta-tas to that bra!

As if all of this information wasn't shocking enough, the reaction I got from my unassuming (or so I thought) family, really surprised me. I told no one about my new secret weapon - my dirty little secret. One day, I just put it on and went with it.

Scene 1:
That same day, I was meeting my husband for a quick afternoon coffee before picking up the kids from school. I parked in the Starbucks lot and walked in to find my husband sitting by the window, working.
"Hey!" I said as I hung my purse on the chair.
"Oh my God I didn't even recognize you," he said.
"Really? Why?"
"There's something, I don't know...you look different."

Really?

"I'm wearing a new bra," I said flatly.
"Wow, you can really see the difference! Even your posture has improved!"


Scene 2:
I had my new bra on, engaged in closet eyelock when my oldest, Isabella, came barging into my room. (Knocking? What's that?)
"Hey mom, where's....OH! Hey! That's a nice bra!"
"It doesn't really look all that different from the other ones I have," I replied dryly.
"Yes it does! This one is cute. And chic! I didn't know you had bras like that!"

Scene 3:
We were, of course, elbow deep into our entrees at a Mexican restaurant with the family when my youngest decides she has to go kaka. Of course, I took her. She tends to get super chatty when she's going kaka and starts blabbing about random this, that and the others. As I was standing there, waiting patiently and salivating over finishing my enchiladas mole, she looks at me quizzically,  cocking her head to the side as she sized me up - literally.
"Mom, you look taller," she finally said.

Oh, for the love of the Lord - not her too. If a seven-year old notices...

"You think so?" I played along. "Why do you think that?"
"I don't know you just look taller, like you're standing up straighter or something. You look nice."

Apparently, a properly fitted bra can improve my posture, make me look taller, perkier, younger and more stylish! My big boobs have said ta-ta to my saggy bras and now I'm ridin' perky.

I am officially a bra-fittin' boobliever!

The Ties that Bind Us

by Patti

My husband has pretty impeccable taste when it comes to his clothes. I even stopped buying things for him on impromptu shopping sprees because he is so damned picky, he ends up returning most of the things I choose. It's okay, I'm not offended; he looks good and the upside is I will never have to be one of those wives who lays out her husband's clothes for him. If you are one of those wives, god bless you and your outfit selecting self; you are selflessly performing a service for the non-colorblind of this world. And you are making your husband look presentable in the process.

Because my husband knows how to dress himself, I was surprised the other night when, just as I was heading to Cath's house for a much-needed Friday night get-together for us and our girls, he called me to our bedroom. I found him holding up a hot pink, striped shirt against some dark gray dress pants.
"Oh, are you picking out an outfit for the wedding tomorrow?"
"Yeah; does this make sense?"
"Yeah, it looks pretty good." I turned to leave, and he stopped me.
"Wait - what about with this tie?" I turned to find him holding up a bright yellow tie with some squiggles splashed across it.
"Uh... no. Waaay too much going on. Babe - I gotta go. Cathy is waiting for me."
"What about this one?" He pulled another over-wrought tie from his closet, holding it ever so hopefully against the hot pink shirt.
"Are you kidding me?"
"What am I going to do? I don't have any good ties!" He rifled through several more over-designed ties, holding each one up to the shirt, then casting it in disgust to the floor.

If it wasn't for the fact his sudden fashion tantrum was making me late, I might have felt sorry for my usually quite-abled dresser. I was surprised at the depths of his worry over choosing The Perfect Outfit for this wedding. It was as if he was the one getting married.
"Just go to Target and pick out a solid color tie," I offered, fingering the charcoal lines on the hot pink shirt.
"Come with me!"
"I told you - I have plans. You KNOW I have plans. I'm not canceling my plans to go tie shopping with you. Just pick out a solid color. Maybe even, like, a deep hot pink?" I walked out of our bedroom, leaving him in a sea of useless ties.
He followed behind me, holding up another flashy tie candidate.
"NO! It HAS to be a SOLID color!" I took out my phone and Googled "hot pink", bringing up a screen of varying shades of hot pink squares.  I chose the one most likely to succeed, and held it up to M. "Here! This would be the perfect color!"
"Please come with me and help me pick out a tie?"

At that moment, Gaucho the dog started darting frantically around the house, as if he sensed a soulnapping had taken place, and he knew that form which only appeared to resemble his once fashionable master was really a suburban, black socks-with-sandals-wearing dad from Minnesota.  I stared at my suddenly hapless, helpless, colorblind husband and vacillated between utter affection for this new, vulnerable him, and sharp annoyance because why was he sabotaging my plans with ties?

Just as I was about to cave into the guilt his sudden need for my fashion assistance was making me feel, I pictured myself holding up dress after dress, M hostage to my "does this make me look fat?" questions. Would he really be late to meet his friends on a Friday night for that? Would he really keep his macho motorcycle buddies waiting on a Sunday afternoon because I needed help with coordinating this blouse with this skirt?

"You'll figure it out! I gotta go!" I gave him a quick hug and kiss, grabbed the kid and my purse, and bolted out the door before he could change my mind. As I drove, my phone beeped, and at the first light, I looked down to find a text message from him. "At Salvation Army. What about this one?" Attached to the message was a picture of a pink tie. Covered in green paisleys. I fired  a quick reply. "NO". At the next light, he called me.
"They have so many ties here! Help me decide."
"OH MY GOD JUST PICK A SOLID COLOR TIE."

On my way to Cathy's - now a good half hour late - I had to stop at Target to buy some wine. As I plowed through the aisles to get to the wine, I passed the men's section and saw a deep charcoal tie. It was dressy and satiny and exactly right. I snapped a pic with my phone, texted it to M, and waited. Two seconds later. "Perfect."

I have to say, I felt a smug pride at the wedding when I saw M all dressed up. There he was, in his flashy hot pink shirt, his fitted dark gray suit, and the "perfect" tie from Target. There was something in knowing the science behind how he presented himself that day. There was this feeling of unity in knowing he had come to me for my opinion - even if it had annoyed me. I looked at all the other couples there that day and wondered, as I studied their wedding outfits, how much had gone into how they appeared that day. How many of them had had similar conversations the night before? How many wives had been annoyed by their advice-seeking husbands; how many husbands had smiled while craning their necks to see the TV as their wives spun before them in a new dress.... And I realized: these conversations, these moments, these intimate snapshots - both annoying and adoring - these are the ties that bind us.

TWWW's Second Annual Cathy Takes Oscar

by Cathy

"Hey, look! It's Bobby Brady! What's he doing there?"

That was the comment uttered by my husband as the first trumpeted strains of the 85th annual Oscars came across our television screen, opening up to the most beautiful stage set I have ever seen. On that stage, stood Seth McFarland, all dapper and hopeful. And it was Peter Brady (Christopher Knight), not Bobby, my husband and almost everyone else I spoke to, are reminded of when we see Seth.

Before watching Ted, I had no idea who he was. I had to Google him. Then I said, "Is that Peter Brady?"
He looked the part and definitely sounded the part, all those years of voiceover work angling in his favor - and who knew he (and Kristin Chenoweth) could sing like that? However, the opening was ridiculous. Captain Kirk, coming back from the future, giving advice on how to host the Oscars?? What? I found myself searching for the remote several times so that I can fast-forward it but sadly remembered, I was watching it live. The only highlight was watching Charlize and Channing dance. Seth's jokes throughout were a little inappropriate, occasionally funny and downright boring at times. Although his self-deprecating comments certainly helped echo the sentiments of the audience and viewers.

Now on to the real reason we watch the Oscars. The two looks dominating this year were metallics and pastel pales. My choices in each category for best-dressed are:

Naomi Watts. Photo courtesy of Glamour.com

Jennifer Lawrence. Photo courtesy of Glamour.com

Naomi looked as if she was dipped in shimmery, liquid silver and the dress design was uniquely gorgeous with the avant garde cut-out. And JenLa. The quirky, unfiltered personality of this twenty-something kept the pretentiousness of the Oscars in check. She doesn't even attempt to hide her true self - from her practically graceful fall up the stairs to the remark about the standing ovation she received upon getting to the microphone. I absolutely love everything about her. The haute couture Dior fit-to-flare gown was youthful, fun and glam on her. Although I was a little perplexed on the back chain she wore around her neck. Didn't seem like it fit the style of the dress, in my opinion.

Worst dressed:

Anne Hathaway. Photo courtesy of Glamour.com

Oh, Anne. I have a bridesmaid dress just like this one in the back of my closet my closet from about ten years ago. It wasn't made by Prade like yours, but it sure as heck could have been since it looks identical except without the pronounced darts causing you to look like you had nipple hard-ons the entire evening. And the back was not a party, as you say. It was a mish-mosh: criss-crossing, wide, tied ribbons, and back jewelry. There was nothing about this look I liked and it was way too similar to her Golden Globes dress. I would have loved to see her in something more striking and youthful. Wah wahhhh.

• Babs, you know we all love you and it's been a while since we've seen you perform on stage. I get your loyalty to Donna Karan and she is a sensibly chic designer, however you were channeling Stevie Nicks out there with your lengthy, flowy sleeves and layers of gold chains. The Hindi slave bracelet was amusing, but not your thing, my dear. Stevie would've rocked it fittingly but classic befits you best.

"I'll be your gypsy..."

• FLOTUS: What was Harvey Weinstein thinking when he asked you to infringe upon Hollywood's king, Jack Nicholson, and announce the Best Picture winner standing in a room at the White House with uniformed army officers? It looked as if you were inappropriately disturbed whilst mingling with them to awkwardly present an Oscar and drag a political agenda into a glitzy, fluffy awards show. Sorry, but it didn't fit.Oh, and bit too heavy on the bangs this time, too.

• Kristen Stewart. There are no words except that you are dangerously speeding towards Lindsay Lohanville and you best put those brakes on soon. If you busted your toe and were on crutches, why not forgo the stage hobbling and ask the Academy to give you the courtesy of placing yourself at the mic beforehand? You were a skipping mess in lace applique and bruises, channeling a meth addict who just rolled out of her homewrecking bed. Sorry, I'm just not that into you.
• Adele - You are a bombshell. I don't care what they say about your choice of supposed matronly dress or lack of stylist. You know what works for your curvy figure and you work with it. We know it's not easy to expose parts of your body you may be self-conscious about and good for you for sticking to what makes you comfortable. Your performance rocked and you were smoldering, sexy and shimmeringly gorgeous throughout it. Thank you for putting some much-needed umph into these dreadfully boring Oscars.
  

Other highlights for me were the acceptance speeches of Daniel Day Lewis, Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lawrence (fall and all); Charlize's pixie 'do looks gorgeous on her; Bradley Cooper's mom showed up in a feather boa and sneakers? Really? And I loved that Ted made an appearance as well. As for Seth, we'll see if he makes one again next year.

Runners up for best dressed were Stacy Keibler:

Art deco metalli-glam

And the metallic monochromatic maven Jessica Chastain:

Runner up for worst dressed:

This looks like three different dresses were moshed up to create this belted number. But wait. This is nothing new for Zoe. She wore the cabbage dress to the Oscars last year. Right.

I hope you enjoyed my review. What did you think?

Little Lolita

by Patti

Those who know me know I am a little on the liberal side. I tend to be free with expression and thought and am pretty accepting of other people's choices. I'm also a little...opinionated. I will argue with a rude cab driver, tell somebody to bleep off, and stand up for the underdog over and over. Mostly? I just want to be free to be me. After all - this is the girl who wore black garbage bags to school with a studded belt around my waist, and even now, any perception that I am being held back from wearing a black garbage bag to school if I wanna does not sit well with me.

I want my daughter to grow up with the same sense of independent thought and freedom of choice. I want her to be able to fend for herself, fight for what's right, and not be afraid to stand out. And, if she happens to fall in love with someone like her papi - a strong, also opinionated, somewhat conservative ball of fire, I want her to be able to able to love him back while still holding her own and staying true to who she is.

And it all begins with shoes.

I bought S a pair of wedge booties for the fall.  In my eyes, they were totally adorable, totally harmless, totally fashionable. See?

But in M's eyes? They looked like this:

And because he felt he was sending his daughter off to work the streets instead of into the halls of middle school, he refused to let her wear them. We actually had an argument about ANKLE BOOTS.
"She is too young to wear high heels!"
"They are NOT high heels - they are wedges. They look like HIKING boots, for crying out loud; how is that high heels?"
"She wore them with these pink pants that looked like stripper pants!"
"Stripper pants? My daughter does NOT own stripper pants - what are you talking about?"

(Apparently, Children's Place is now in the business of selling hooker wear? Did you know this? I did not know this.)

We discussed her gray ankle boots for nearly an hour. I tried to pinpoint what was causing my anxiety over his disdain for the harmless shoes, and I realized that I was kind of projecting my own fear of being stifled into the matter - and he was projecting his own fear of his daughter growing up. We were both projecting our neuroses onto S, and all the poor kid wanted to do was wear her I STILL SAY TOTALLY HARMLESS boots in peace.

A couple of days after our conversation, I spotted the boots on the shoe rack by our door and picked them up, marveling at how even MORE conservative they appeared to me under the shadow of "slut wear!" that had so unfairly been cast upon them. M was watching TV and I held one of the shoes up to his face. "Really? REALLY? THIS is what you were freaking out about?"

In the end, she will wear her boots, but she will wear them with non-stripper pants to appease her father. And to satisfy me, she will wear them with a confident smile on her face that says, "I won this battle; I will one day win the war."

What NOT to Wear

by Patti & Cathy

We haven't been really good about honoring our Dual Whine Fridays, have we? I mean - we realize that the very first thing that pops into your head when you open your eyes on a Friday morning is our blog - and that you can't wait to read not one whine, but TWO - all at once! And that is why we are posting an oldie but goodie. Because we would never want to let you down.

Happy Friday!
......................

The other day we were complaining to each other about the sad state of our prospective wardrobes. We both need new clothes in the worst way; sadly, other more important things always come up which seem to put a dent in the fashion fund: Things like ballet lessons, and tennis lessons, and tuition, and Chicago-style gas bills, and weird car noises, and allergy medications, and, oh yeah, food. This got us thinking about all the creative tactics we have both put into practice in trying to figure out what the hell to put on in the mornings. We are both working girls, and although it would be fun to lounge around in yoga pants all day, it just ain’t feasible. Much to the chagrin of our closets, we must represent.

Patti:
My what-to-wear tactic involves mustering up an outfit in my head as I fall asleep. Once it is completely put together in the Fantasia Land of my brain, I can then happily fall asleep relaxed, knowing it’s all taken care of. The next morning, since I know it’s all taken care of, I press the “snooze” button a few too many times because, hey! I already know what I’m wearing, and that is ¾ of the morning battle. Of course, once I finally get around to getting out of bed and I actually put on the dreamed-up outfit, it is inevitably a total disaster. What was I thinking, putting together an outfit as I am falling asleep? WHO THINKS CLEARLY AT THE THRESHOLD OF CONSCIOUSNESS?

Because I now do not have enough time, I am then propelled into bionic get-ready mode, and one can find me in my closet tossing shirts into the air, flinging pants and skirts around, and sniffing stuff to check if it’s dirty. The end result? Pants pulled from the Dredges of the Misfits, put on with creative attempts at trying to make them not look so like hell: The cuffs might be rolled up in an attempt to make them look “edgy” instead of “high-watery”; the waist, which is now baggy, is cinched with a sparkly belt in an attempt to make them look “trendy” instead of “stretched out and misshapen”. That sparkly belt? Actually belongs to my 10-year old daughter.

Then come the shoes. Oh, the shoes. All of my shoes are in desperate need of cobbler care. The heel tips are all worn and raggedy, and although I have creatively Sharpied the shit out of some of those heels, I also dig into the Dredges of Misfits for shoes that don’t look like I wore them to travel to Italy 2 years ago - BY FOOT. Of course I end up with shoes I have never worn before, and for good reason: The heels are 5-inch heels, and your co-workers end up commenting all day on how tall you suddenly seem, which is subtle speak for "you look like a hooker."

Cathy:
Like Patti, I too mentally scour my closet at night as I am drifting off to the land of nod. (I had no idea she did this until now. Which got me to thinking, how many other women lay in their beds at night dreaming up the 853rd creative way to wear those same clothes or even dig way back in the corners of their mental closets in desperation to introduce something old as new again?) The process helps me relax and forget about the stressful day I've had or the one awaiting me tomorrow. It's something I do for myself. Of course half the time I never complete the whole ensemble in my head because I get too exhausted trying to re-work the unworkable and make it look fresh. I just conk out and deal with it the next morning.

Dealing with it consists of the following: Standing in front of my open closet, assembling outfits in my head with every piece of clothing I haven't ruled out yet. This eventually leads to Closet Eyelock, a condition that occurs when you've been standing there longer than it takes to MAKE the clothes, until your eyes glaze over and before you know it, you are daydreaming about what to eat for lunch. By then, you have 2.3 minutes to get ready and the end result is some mismatched, ridiculously thrown together outfit we desperately try to make look halfway cool. If we don't get 'out with the old and in with the new' soon we'll be dangerously inching towards the slippery slope of clothing disasters known as Midwestern Moda.
……………………….

Yes, our closets are in sad, shapeless shape. Our staples are actually stapled, our basics are boring, our shoes are shot. But the good news is? Damn, we are some creative bitches.

Size DOES Matter

by Cathy

In the words of Salt n' Pepa: 
Ladies, all the ladies, louder now, help me out, c'mon, all the ladies!
Salt n' Who? you ask?

I don't care if I've just aged myself, because ladies, the truth must be told. The lies are over.  I am here to tell you to stop frontin' and fakin' it. We all know that size really does matter and that we get no pleasure in fooling ourselves to believe otherwise.

Women come in vast shapes and sizes - big, small, narrow, wide, long, short and a trillion combinations of all of the above. So why do we settle? Yes, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout.
Clothes.

You're lying to yourself if you think otherwise, okaaayy?

Before the European Invasion of clothing stores hit the U.S., (H&M, Zara, TopShop, et al) we were perfectly content with the deceptive yet confidence-boosting sizing tactics created by savvy marketers to make us think our waistlines were shrinking, when in fact? They were NOT.  Everyone miraculously went down at least one or two sizes while remaining the same physical size. We wonderingly yet gleefully emerged from fitting rooms ready to exchange the size we thought we were for a smaller size. I'm shopping here from now on, we all thought. And we did. At this store, I'm a size 4! But we weren't.

Then? Those starkly pragmatic tell-it-like-it-is Europeans, with their highfalutin designers, ostentatious fashion shows, and a waif-like fan following (because apparently, no one in Europe eats) have decided to not be so kind. In fact, they have gone one step beyond true sizing in the opposite direction, and cut their clothing slimmer and tighter than the wardrobe of a streetwalker. 

I went shopping at Zara recently. Part of my husband's birthday gift to me was a shopping excursion to a place of my choice. Armed with his credit card, a day to myself and that world-is-my-oyster feeling, I opened the doors to Zara on Michigan Avenue and breathed in the smell of all that leather, that fashion, that "I'm gonna get me some new clothes!" energy.

Like any fashion-conscious woman, I had a punch list of some basics I needed: something with a leopard print, another pair of skinnies, and for good measure, a black leather jacket. So I began browsing through a table of neatly folded skinny jeans in an array of muted colors. "OOOOh, these are cute!" I mused aloud, feeling my pulse accelerating. (Yes, this does happen when I shop.) So I filed through the color of my choice and only saw a slew of 0s, 2s and 4s. There was one size 6 and I reluctantly grabbed it while knowing full-well I would look much less hookerish in a size 8. So I asked the petite (of course) sales associate.

"Do you have any other sizes besides what's out?"
"What size are you looking for?"
"An 8," I replied cautiously.
"Ooooh. I don't know if they go up that high," she replied matter-of-factly as she started filing through the other colors.
That high?!?! Was she kidding me?!
"Really?" I replied, feeling my blood boil. "You consider size 8s high? Hmpf. I guess you do."

How about the fact that all of the average-sized women may have already grabbed all the bigger sizes and left all the small sizes for the much less smaller demographic? Or do they purposely order more of the smaller sizes to weed out anyone over a size 6? The embarrassed sales associate now buried her nose in the skinnies stacks while shuffling around trying to find something that would accommodate me and get me on my merry way. She finally handed me a size 8 in another style. I grabbed it along with a cute peplum leopard top I noticed, turned on my heel and headed towards the fitting room, my good shopping mood now downgraded to annoyed.

The pants fit me just fine but the top? I realized, I as shimmied my way into the size medium top that there was no room allotted for women with breasts bigger than an A cup size. As I sized up the way my once full boobs looked, now plastered down and oblong-shaped in this otherwise cute top, my mood was officially killed.

I ended up buying those size 8 skinnies, went home and told my husband about the experience.
"Don't feel bad," he said. "That's why I don't even bother shopping outside the brands I already know fit me," he continued. "Those European places cut their men's clothes super slim too. There's no way a man with a chest can actually fit into any of their clothes." I realized he was right. All of those male models now look like you could snap them in half, all manorexic, deflated and wilted - just like their female counterparts.


It wasn't just me. Or just women, for that matter. Men are facing the same issues with size. Apparently, size matters to everybody. Just remember that the next time you hear about another European brand slinking its way across the Atlantic and into our psyches. And pray that you are in the mood. To shop.

Nightclub Shopping

by Cathy

We've all been there:You can hear the music thumping and smell the sensual scents of youthful fragrances even before you reach the big, sleek doors. A buzz of excitement courses through your body in anticipation of the fun you will have once you're inside. You will see and be seen. You look your best; you feel your best. It's time to get this party started.

With a big swoosh, the doors bow open upon your entry. Immediately, your senses heighten as you take in the scene. Those smells are stronger now - musky men's cologne and floral women's perfumes battle for the rights to the air you breathe. Quasi-provocative, black-and-white photos of dewy, fresh-faced, pubescent youths adorn the walls, enticing and luring you through the joint.

As you snake your way through the dimly lit environment, the music beats bounce off your chest and reverberate against your sternum. The music loud enough to discourage conversation, so your body starts to let go as you surrender to the melodies overtaking your ears.  Your hips start to swing and before you know it, you are singing along, snapping your fingers and bobbing your head.

Feelin' good, you head towards the back...all the way in the back...you know, where all the smart, cool, V.I.P.s hang out. You turn the corner, fully expecting a dazzling display of glossy liquor bottles, swanky martini glasses and more beautiful people lounging around the bar area. Instead...you find a cashier's desk. Yes, my fellow clubshopper, you have entered Club Abercrombie.

As children (or should I say, girls) mature, so does their taste in clothes and accessories. They become socially and self aware. They observe fashions, styles, trends, and the outfits and brands their friends and favorite Disney characters are wearing and putting together. They read magazines, browse online pop culture sites and are tapped into several forms of social media via several forms of gadgetry. They are more conscious of the way they present themselves to the world - namely, this world being their peers. On some level, they all want to fit in, be in the know, and fear becoming ostracized in any capacity.

So, here's the thing I love about my Bella: She has never, ever whined about, cried over, complained about or demanded anything she covets or wants. She is very subtle about mentioning what she likes and how nice it would be if she had (blank) or how some of the girls at school have (blank). She has never come right out and directly asked for anything, but rather nonchalantly stated that it would be nice if she had (blank) or (blank) is so cool!!

In such a way, came about our first ever shopping excursion to abercrombie kids this past weekend. We decided to treat Bella to some cute abercrombie tees she's been hinting at for quite some. And what better timing than to hit a sale??

Come here girl. Come to the back. V.I.P. Drinks on me. Get your sexy on.

Now if I were in a real club, ya know, in Da Cluuuuub, I wouldn't mind the loud ass music, the darkly lit alcoves and even the nauseating colognes. But we were here for a reason - to shop with an 11-year old, headstrong, indecisive girl. And with that comes a lot of negotiating, cajoling, suggesting, bickering and a LOT of time. Mix all of these elements up and you have some pretty frustrated, annoyed parents, who, guess what marketing gurus? Have the money that will pay for the overly full-priced clothing in your store club, so while it's important to target the consumer age group, you must also cater to the ones dishing out the Benjamins.

Finally, while in the checkout line, with the music now slowly bumping the clothing off the shelves with each beat, other customers' kids whining about what they want, the pimple-faced cashier losing her fitting room keys while her cohort bangs a roll of quarters open in the cash drawer, the perfumes being sprayed by a gaggle of girls just inches from my face, I looked over at Bella and yelled, "It's sensory overload in here!"

Magically, as if I've said Abracadabra!, the mom behind me in line transforms into a Gushing Gertrude and finds the opportunity to exasperatingly agree with me yelling in my ear, club style: "If they could turn the music down just a notch, my God! It's not like we're in a club!"

Oh, but we are, thanks to those marketing gurus straight out of college. Oh how I wish I could Abracadabra!  the cashier's desk into that shiny bar so I could get my drink on to deal with all this madness. But hey, if my daughter wants it and likes it, I'll put up with it and try in vain to relive my youth via the club machine that is abercrombie.

Who knows? Maybe I can find something in my size...

TWWW's First Annual - Cathy Takes Oscar

by Cathy

Since I was old enough to understand what the Oscars were, I have been as diligent and loyal a viewer of that shimmery event as its golden mascot. In fact, I've had my Oscar dress designed since I was 14, on the off-chance that I one day make it there in some capacity. Although the dress design has undoubtedly gone through several tweaks and transformations throughout the years, the dream remains.

As I am hoping, pimpin' and prayin' for that dream while glued to my television year after longing year, I feel that I now officially reserve the right to be an unofficial commentator on what the red carpet and the grand Oscar stage puts forth into our living rooms every year. There's just so much that demands to be commended, satirized, pitied, booed, applauded and lauded, that I just can't contain myself! So until Oscar decides to take me on, I will take him on:


- Kudos to you, Billy Crystal. You were actually funny. The intro, the best picture Broadway medley and the 'What Are They Thinking?' piece were all entertaining and intelligent without being crude or slapstick. Your one-liners throughout the night were on key, truthful and again, funny. Please come back next year and every year after that!

- Cirque du Soleil - what a top-notch, jaw-dropping performance. The Oscars needed a theatrical boost!

- Melissa McCarthy and the whole gang of "Bridesmaids" - Scorsese!! Love you, funny ladies!

- Alexander Payne - I have my own selfish reasons for loving him during this year's telecast as he uttered the first Greek words ever at the Oscars. S'agapo poli Alexander!

- "The Artist" for Best Picture of the Year? Even though Jean Dujardin is my new crush and his smile lights up the stage all on its own, admittedly, I haven't seen the movie but humor me here - it's a SILENT movie made by the French. Okaaaayy?

Viola Davis - What happened to the sleek, sexy, choppy bob you sported at the Golden Globes or the soft curls framing your Marchesa gown at the SAGs? Although I commend you for going au naturel, the Oscars wasn't the place to do it. It felt a little Christmas-y with your red hair and green dress. And hello - didn't your stylist tell you that you shouldn't ever match your earrings (or your clutch, for that matter, ladies) to the color of your dress?

J. Lo - Let them say what they want about you - wardrobe malfunction, areola shadow, whatevs.  You can rock anything you wear and cause enough of a buzz to keep them talking about you, smart lady. The diva title was meant to be yours.

Cameron Diaz - your hair is too short and you need to lay off the gym weights. And the dress? I love Gucci, but this one was eh.

 Milla Jovovich - we all love a sexy bedroom eye but you looked borderline junkie, lids fluttering to stay open, eyeballs rolling back in your head during your presentation.

She was one leg stance short of this.

Angelina - eventually that stoic, forced, understated glamour and tight-lipped classy image was bound to crack and reveal the touch o' classlessness Angelina always harbored. There is a much more demure, classy way to rock a high slit than turning your foot outward and sprawling out your inner thigh. If she would have done the same with the other leg, she would have been ready to leap and ribbit. And for the love of GOD can you please stuff a steak in your mouth! A loaf of bread! Your arms are third-world skelatal. Make a dinner reservation and take Rose Byrne with you or I'll have to crack you both in half with my pinkies.

Jessica Chastain -  Yes, Alexander McQueen was a fashion talent icon lost way too soon and the dress had amazing detail and show-stopping attributes, but on Jessica, I felt it was too stark for her alabaster skin and fair hair. Something feminine would have flowed much more nicely together.

Sasha Baren Cohen - YOU SUCK. Take your classless stunts to the appropriate environments you've created for them. You've marred the dignity the Oscars have carried for 84 years. Not the time or the place for your dumb-ass shenanigans.



Natalie Portman -  Hunny, sweety-pie. If your dress was knee-length, all you would have needed were those ruby slippers and some bows in your hair. A polka-dotted ballgown? In red? I don't care that it's vintage Dior. Even fashion Gods make mistekes. No, no. Just because you're a mom now doesn't mean you need to lose all sense of fashion.

LOVED the presenter skits: Emma Stone and Ben Stiller and Gwyneth Paltrow and Robert Downey Jr. were spot on. Best dressed in white: Gwyneth Paltrow and Jennifer Lopez. Best dressed in red: Michelle Williams and Emma Stone. Worst dressed: Natalie Portman and Penelope Cruz. So happy for Meryl Streep! Loved her and Chris Rock for keeping things real. So sad for Demian Bichir and Nick Nolte.

 


Did I miss anything? Do you disagree? Let me know!

And until I get to rock the red carpet myself and have other non-descript bloggers scrutinize the dress which I have been design-cycling since my teens years, I'll be back again next year.

Pay More at Payless!

by Cathy

The drawing room at Woman's Athletic Club

Recently, Bella received her first Saturday night party invitation. Without parents! And there will be music! And dancing! And dinner! And optional evening gown attire! (If you find one of these for your 10-year old, please let me know.)

Where will this milestone event take place, you ask? A friend's house? A restaurant? A banquet hall? A school gym? Why, no. It'll be at a club! No, no, rest assured. This isn't da cluuub. It's a Club. The Woman's Athletic Club of Chicago, that is.

Oh, you're not familiar with WAC? Well, I hadn't  been either until I checked the place out online to make sure she won't be mingling amongst dangling free weights and swimming pools. Turns out, there's none of that at this athletic club.

Once she heard about the shi-shi invite, she went straight to her closet, dug through the wall of clothes and yanked out the exact party dress she wanted to wear: a cream and black dress with vertical ruffles down the front and a black silk and tulle skirt that hit her perfectly at the knee. She just needed some tights and a pair of nice dress shoes to compete her ensemble. The tights were no problem - I could pick up a pair at Target on my way home from work and call it a day. The shoes, on the other hand, were a more delicate issue.  She needed to be with me, lest I buy her a pair that was too pointy, too rounded, too girly, too babyish, too big, too small, too rhinestoney, too sparkly, or with too many bows (i.e. one).

Considering activities, homework and sports, the timing for shopping had to magically work into our schedule. Besides, we wanted to go without her little sister since that could cause distractions of grand proportions. So I took advantage of a teeny, tiny window of time when Ari would be at swimming and Bella would be fresh out of basketball practice. I had precisely 45 minutes to work with so I packed a sandwich for her - because shopping with a tween girl is hard enough, let alone a tired, hungry tween girl - and off I went.

But where would I go?

I phoned my mother-in-law earlier that day, asking her if she had returned that pair of too-big shoes she had gotten Bella for Christmas, and if not, then I could possibly exchange them for something Bella finds and likes herself. But alas, they'd been returned.

"I know it's hard!" said my MIL on the phone. "I tried to buy her another pair but they didn't have anything nice. But you know what?" she continued, realizing my time crunch and desperate to help. "You can go to Payless! They have BOGO!" she said excitedly, her Hispanic accent making it sound even more appealing.

BOGO is always good when you have two sprouting girls to buy shoes for. Who can't always take advantage of that? But I would make that my second option. My first would be my go-to store for everything I need in a pinch: Marshall's. It was close to my house and had a good selection of nice designery stuff - except, of course, for the night we went. Repeatedly, Bella tried like Cinderella's step-sisters to make multiple pairs of shoes fit, but to no avail.

Disappointed and running super low on time, we walked out into the brisk night air. I scanned the mall desperately for a girls' shoe store to magically appear and there I saw it, beckoning us from across the parking lot: Payless.

'BOGO!' I heard my MIL's voice echoing in my head.

"BOGO it is!" I said aloud, grabbing Bella's hand and hightailing it over.

Payless for a WAC function? But, of course.

The smell of lovely plastic, man-made shoe materials overwhelmed us upon entry. We made our way to the girls aisle, where within minutes of browsing Bella spotted THE pair.

"Oooh, these are cute!" she said. And then I was surprised to hear her say: "Really? These are $25? At Payless?"

I chuckled to myself, recalling something my sister overheard once while walking past the Payless store at the Old Orchard mall. Two ladies, BOGO bags in tow, were walking out of the store, and one turns to the other and blurts out what she had been seemingly wanting to say the entire time they were in the store.

"Can you believe these were $50?" her voice went up high, before it came down to a low, deliberate tone and finished with, "At Pay. Less." Her voice trailed off, "I coulda gotten something similar at Macy's for $35!"

That BOGO deal must've been too good to pass up.

Like these ladies, Patti and I have found ourselves browsing through a Payless - either for our kids or when we're looking for some everyday, kickaround little numbers or styles based on a shoe trend we don't want to spend zillions of dollars on. We too had found ourselves musing at how expensive the shoes are.

"I don't know about these boots," I once shared with Patti. "They're cute but they're $55. At Payless. Are they worth it for what I am getting?"

"That's a lot for Payless, girl!" Patti quipped back, trying on some platform heels.

"But they're made by that Project Runway guy, you know, that designer?" I questioned back, justifying the price with the above-par quality I would get in comparison to 'regular' Payless shoes.

"Yeah, but it's up to you on if you want to spend that money here on that designer or go somewhere else and get something even better. Payless ain't cheap no more, girl!"

I didn't buy those boots that day, but standing in that Payless with Bella as she was falling in love with the black sequined flats decorated with a beautiful silky, frilly bow (I must say, they were way cuter than what we saw at Marshall's) and I falling in love with her even more for always being my budget-minded, sensitive one, I told her she shouldn't worry about where the shoes are from or what they cost. "If you love them, we're getting them," I said.

I gave the shoes a last once-over and wondered if that picture of Selena Gomez (star of Disney's Wizarads of Waverly Place!) plastered to the insoles had something to do with the higher price point for these Payless shoes. "Ah. They're a Payless designer shoe," I smiled to myself.

Happy with her choice, Bella helped me choose a pair of ballet shoes for Ari, who is now wearing Bella's old hand-me-downs and is spilling out of them. Bonus! BOGO!

We paid almost $40 for both pairs.
At Pay. Less.

Bella and I now refer to it as Paymore. The entire time in the store, we repeated our new tagline aloud in a TV announcer's voice: "Pay more at Payless!" we kept saying with a huge, fake smile.

But hey, we can't complain. At least we got BOGO.

Seduced by Velcro

by Cathy

It seems that we are constantly rushing through our tasks, doesn't it? We have so much to do, that we don't do things carefully enough. Things like making sure to triple-check your emails before you hit SEND and propel them into outer space where they can always be retrieved by someone at any given time. Scary, huh? Today I almost sent out a work email to a fashion designer in the industry. I meant to say, "I'm sure you'll go far" and at the very last minute, my eye caught it: I had written, "I'm sure you'll go fart."

If I can stop myself from laughing at my own carelessness long enough, I'd like to share with you another close call that would've been disastrous if not caught. It happened the other day in the midst of school-prepping morning madness. We were running late as we do every single morning, and my husband grabbed Bella's coat off the coat rack, where I had sleepily hung it the night before, freshly washed and dried and smelling like lavender-scented pine trees. He hurriedly tugged in onto her shoulders, she zipped it up and they were ready to go.

"Uhhh, mommy," said my husband slowly in his parenting voice, screeching the brakes on our Morning Rush Hour. "Aren't you going to need these?"

He turned Bella towards me and there she stood, oblivious to the look she would be sporting at school today. From two of the front velcro close tabs on her coat were hanging one Men's Jockey low-rise briefs and one of my black thongs. NO. JOKE. He quickly ripped them off and handed them to me while we all broke down in a belly laugh of belly laughs.

To make things worse, this wasn't the first time underwear decorated my kids' coats like a tricked-out Christmas tree. It happened the last time I washed their coats. That time, it was on Ari's bright, white coat, and from it was another one of MY thongs - this one in chartreuse green.  Thank Victoria's Secret, folks.

Here's what I don't get: why is it that only underwear - and only my husband's and my underwear - gets attracted to the velcro tabs?? Why couldn't it have been a sock or one of the girls' little undershirts or even a mitten? Those are all small enough to latch on. But why the parents' underwear? Why is that this velcro, which is soooo easily seduced, is determined to send my kids to school looking slutty-fied?

I'm not sure why, but hopefully, we will never be too rushed to realize that we are sending our kids off to school with Jockey briefs and thongs dangling from their coats. Hopefully...


P.S. A picture would've been worth a thousand laughs but alas, I forgot to take one. And plus, who wants to air their (at least it was clean) laundry out there? T.M.I., people.

Snooki and Flashdance

 by Cathy and Patti

There are many amazing things about having daughters.

For one, as they grow older, we, as mothers, have a built-in buddy; somebody to shop with, play with, share clothes and makeup with, and yes, even get hormonal with. But there are some, uh, challenges, that come along with having daughters, not the least the fact that, as they grow older, some of their fashion choices, however innocently concocted, leave us with a big ol' "What the Hell?" bubble over our heads.

Now, we consider ourselves pretty “with it” moms. We both dress trendy, we both love our heels and occasional hoochwear, we both still like hanging out and going out. In short: We ain’t old fashioned June Cleavers clutching at our pearls at the sight of some skin and sin. However. When it comes to our girls?  Sometimes those proverbial pearls get clutched.

Cathy:
I would say Bella is pretty fashionable; she keeps up on all the fashion magazine trends and is always quick to notice a new piece of clothing or pair of shoes I've bought. Considering what a picky dresser she was when she was a little girl, she has expanded her experimentation with clothes considerably - except for two things: 1) She gets hung up with certain items (skinny jeans) and she wears them every. single. day. until there are holes in the knees and 2) she hates wearing clothes that are loose, big or even just her size. Nope. She prefers shirts to be glued onto her chest, button-downs barely buttoned and pants she needs to hop into.

The other day she wore a size 4T sweater to school. (She is 10 years old.) Her school uniform shirts are her younger sister's - a size 6. Because of this, I have no idea what her true size really is. In my head, I still think she's an 8. But when I think of buying her a size 10, I feel like it will be too big for her - even though it's according to her height and weight. While out shopping for a fall coat for her with Patti, I chose a cool, fitted, military style coat - and after struggling between the 8/10 and the 10/12, I went with the 8/10 because of her Snookified fashion style. Patti looked at the coat with hesitation and went on to prove to me that this size wouldn't fit her. She was right. I've been trained to go with the Snooki Lookies for Bella but going forward, I'll know to stick with her true, un-Snookified size.

Patti:
What a feelin'! Means believin'! I can have it all, now I'm dancin' for my life!

No, you're not imagining it. You did just hear S's theme song. Somehow, some way, it doesn't matter what she is wearing, it ends up becoming a total Flashdance, off-the-shoulder number. The other day we were at a pumpkin patch. It was a brisk day, and we were all wearing sweaters. S, however, had strategically slid the sweater off of her shoulders and was walking around it with barely clinging to her back. "Honey, it's chilly. Put that sweater back on!"
"I can't help it, mom - it just keeps falling off."

Yeah, right. The thick, heavy, cable-knit sweater that is easily secured with buttons up the front just keeps slipping right off. Let's face it: It could be a zillion below zero degrees outside, and S would still find a way to sport the world's first shoulder-baring turtleneck, all in the name of "cool".

I know what is really going on. In S's mind, this off-the-shoulder look means she is in a video; she is Selena Gomez; she is a famous dancer! I love that my kid has a vivid imagination; what I don't love is that it is manifested through the Flashdancification of just about anything she puts on. The second that fabric slides off her shoulder, she becomes a maniac, maniac on the floor, and while part of me wants to let her express herself, the other part is all, "God, I miss onesies."

Just a steel-town girl on a Saturday night.

Yes, having daughters is amazing. I mean, sure, they can inadvertently Snooki it up and innocently flash in a Flashdance kind of way, but really? We know they really aren't Snooki and Jennifer Beals - they are who they are. And we wouldn't want them to be anyone else.

Dress to Impress

by Cathy

I knew this particular day was going to be busy: work, offsite meeting, family visit and Bella's volleyball game. I had to plan my outfit for the day accordingly as I always try to do. Something cute but easy. And definitely flats. I decided on a pair of cargo pants and a white V-neck, button-down, knit cardigan. Done.

At the volleyball game I ran into another mom from school I don't get to see very often, as tonight our two school teams were playing against each other. This particular mom is very down-to-earth, very humble and always had been since I met her.

It was warm in that gym as we stood and chatted away and I couldn't help but notice that she was wearing a Columbia fleece jacket over her shirt. As I stood there fanning myself and pushing my sleeves up, I saw the beads of sweat accumulating on her upper lip and her face was reddening. I wondered why she just didn't remove her jacket?

Well, apparently, she got to her breaking point. "I'm just gonna take this off," she said quickly. "I've got my grubby work clothes on under this, but who cares. I'm done dressing to impress the other parents. I was over that long ago." And...boom! She just said in three sentences what all the other mothers wish they could come out and say or do themselves.

You see, the moms at are our school are fashion showey. Super nice personalities, but it seems like there's always this underlying competition of outfits going on. I mean, what stay-at-home-mom comes to pick up her kids with perfectly creased gaberdine slacks, supple leather belt embellished with the Versace logo, Tory Birch flats and a perfectly tailored top with a matching cardigan?  Big designer shades, super sleeked hair in a high pony and an equally embellished Yorkie on a sparkly leash completed her picking-up-the-kids-from-school look.

Therefore, I immediately knew where this mom's exasperated confession was coming from. And yes - her hair was disheveled, her clothes were frumpy and she had not a lick of makeup on. But I found out she's a teacher. She sends her three kids off to school everyday and goes on to partake in an even more chaotic environment by teaching kindergarteners and first graders all day long.
"I'm on the floor most of the day with the kids" she offered, looking down at her clothes.
"Oh please. You don't have to explain to me," I replied. "I just give you credit for wanting to be with yet more kids other than your own on a daily basis."
She laughed.

As I looked around, I spotted a woman in skinny jeans, heels and a sheer top layered over lace (remember, we are at a kids volleyball game in a grammar school gym), and a woman in the fanciest, flounciest tennis skirt I've ever seen. We get it. You work out. Your legs are toned. You look like a Hamptons Hooker. The refs are gawking. Can you change into something more school-appropriate?

It's great to dress up, to look and feel put together and give off an impression as such. All women should strive for some version of that that works for themselves. But it's also important to be true to who you are. And if that means you are dressed like a Frumpalina on a daily basis, well, then so be it.

What Not to Wear

by Cathy & Patti

The other day we were complaining to each other about the sad state of our prospective wardrobes. We both need new clothes in the worst way; sadly, other more important things always come up which seem to put a dent in the fashion fund: Things like ballet lessons, and tennis lessons, and tuition, and Chicago-style gas bills, and weird car noises, and allergy medications, and, oh yeah, food. This got us thinking about all the creative tactics we have both put into practice in trying to figure out what the hell to put on in the mornings. We are both working girls, and although it would be fun to lounge around in yoga pants all day, it just ain’t feasible. Much to the chagrin of our closets, we must represent.
……………………….

Patti:
My what-to-wear tactic involves mustering up an outfit in my head as I fall asleep. Once it is completely put together in the Fantasia Land of my brain, I can then happily fall asleep relaxed, knowing it’s all taken care of. The next morning, since I know it’s all taken care of, I press the “snooze” button a few too many times because, hey! I already know what I’m wearing, and that is ¾ of the morning battle. Of course, once I finally get around to getting out of bed and I actually put on the dreamed-up outfit, it is inevitably a total disaster. What was I thinking, putting together an outfit as I am falling asleep? WHO THINKS CLEARLY AT THE THRESHOLD OF CONSCIOUSNESS?

Because I now do not have enough time, I am then propelled into bionic get-ready mode, and one can find me in my closet tossing shirts into the air, flinging pants and skirts around, and sniffing stuff to check if it’s dirty. The end result? Pants pulled from the Dredges of the Misfits, put on with creative attempts at trying to make them not look so like hell: The cuffs might be rolled up in an attempt to make them look “edgy” instead of “high-watery”; the waist, which is now baggy, is cinched with a sparkly belt in an attempt to make them look “trendy” instead of “stretched out and misshapen”. That sparkly belt? Actually belongs to my 10-year old daughter.

Then come the shoes. Oh, the shoes. All of my shoes are in desperate need of cobbler care. The heel tips are all worn and raggedy, and although I have creatively Sharpied the shit out of some of those heels, I also dig into the Dredges of Misfits for shoes that don’t look like I wore them to travel to Italy 2 years ago - BY FOOT. Of course I end up with shoes I have never worn before, and for good reason: The heels are 5-inch heels, and your co-workers end up commenting all day on how tall you suddenly seem, which is subtle speak for "you look like a hooker."

Cathy:
Like Patti, I too mentally scour my closet at night as I am drifting off to the land of nod. (I had no idea she did this until now. Which got me to thinking, how many other women lay in their beds at night dreaming up the 853rd creative way to wear those same clothes or even dig way back in the corners of their mental closets in desperation to introduce something old as new again?) The process helps me relax and forget about the stressful day I've had or the one awaiting me tomorrow. It's something I do for myself. Of course half the time I never complete the whole ensemble in my head because I get too exhausted trying to re-work the unworkable and make it look fresh. I just conk out and deal with it the next morning.

Dealing with it consists of the following: Standing in front of my open closet, assembling outfits in my head with every piece of clothing I haven't ruled out yet. This eventually leads to Closet Eyelock, a condition that occurs when you've been standing there longer than it takes to MAKE the clothes, until your eyes glaze over and before you know it, you are daydreaming about what to eat for lunch. By then, you have 2.3 minutes to get ready and the end result is some mismatched, ridiculously thrown together outfit we desperately try to make look halfway cool. If we don't get 'out with the old and in with the new' soon we'll be dangerously inching towards the slippery slope of clothing disasters known as Midwestern Moda.
……………………….

Yes, our closets are in sad, shapeless shape. Our staples are actually stapled, our basics are boring, our shoes are shot. But the good news is? Damn, we are some creative bitches.

Cheap Chic

by Cathy

I am admitting it here. I am a designer brand fanatic. I love me some designer duds and accessories. But seeing as other priorities now grab hold of my weekly paycheck, it's quite the rare opportunity that I have to allow myself extravagant luxuries.

So naturally, when I heard about the Missoni launch at Target stores, I was all over that. Regular Janes like you and I would now have the chance to own a Missoni - designer level quality and style for 'cheap' compared to what it would sell at a shi shi store it normally sells in. However, I never expected the Missoni Madness that ensued, whereby crowds of anxious designer brand whores like me lined up hours before the stores opened and cleaned out the place within a half hour. No, that I did not expect.

As I've frequented Target stores since then, I have found that with every visit, more and more Missoni items have been slinking their way back on Target shelves. 'Buyers remorse' had set in for those that spent too much and couldn't sell the items on eBay. So there they were. The other day, I happened upon a Missoni knit vest (I had been in the market for a good vest for a while now). It was size large, but it was Missoni and I would make it work. I snagged up a pair of chocoalate lace zig zag tights and zig zagged my way home.

The next day (naturally) I wore the vest. I was at Costco (naturally) waiting in line, when I noticed the woman in front of me look over and smile as she eyed me up and down, slowly placing her humungous bag of croutons on the conveyer belt. She looked away and then back at me, this time, holding her industrial sized bag of broccoli. "Were you there? Were you part of the madness on the first day?" And immediately, like I've known her for years, I knew exactly what she was asking me.
"Can you believe," I responded without missing a beat, "I got this yesterday?"
An incredulous, low-pitched "Nooo!" was her wide-eyed response.
"And you're gonna die," I continued, almost tauntingly but with an obvious twinge of pride. She was smiling wide at this point, waiting for my next line like a child about to be handed an ice cream cone. "Seven bucks."
She threw her hand up in disbelief. "What?!? B..but..HOW?"
I touched her hand to calm her down and explain my strategy in the hopes she would be so lucky. "It had no pricetage and when I went to ask about it at the service desk, they told me it was on online purchase. So it was seven dollars."

There we were, at the Costco checkout line, exchanging stories about the Missoni Madness - because every brand-loving woman out there had one. She went on about how she was part of the 'first day' madness, a part of the chaos that will go down in shopping history, at least in her mind. She ended our exchange with, "Well, at least we'll have something to remember it all with."

As I cordially nodded goodbye, I concluded that what makes us women genuinely happy and gives us reason to strike up conversations with complete strangers about our wardrobe and spending history, is simply snagging a good bargain. And if it happens to be a designer brand?

Waaaay better.

Just When You Think It's Safe...

by Cathy

Just this past weekend, as the temperatures dipped into the 40s at night, I safely packed away my last plastic tote filled with our summer clothes. It took me almost two full weeks to complete this Seasonal Switchout Shuffle. After going through entire wardrobes for each one of us - donating clothes that Ari has outgrown, organizing and labeling by size the clothes that Bella has outgrown (for Ari) and sorting through everything from pj's to shoes for me and Joe, I was finally done. Summer clothes were neatly stored away, labeled, and placed in storage.

As a native of Chicago, I know better than to lock them up and throw away the key. In fact, instead of placing these totes in the jumbled drepths of my storage, I have instead placed them right inside the entrance to the storage for easy access. Why? I've come to recognize the games the weather here plays. Just when you think it's safe to assume that a new season is upon us, it isn't.

This week it's supposed to reach 80 degrees. "But it's not a summer 80," my perpetually cold husband warned. "It's October. Let's not get crazy." Some could say this is our Indian Summer, but I would like to think that is still down the road, ready to rear its pretty head and surprise us in November.

For this reason, I have left a few summer staples mixed in with the current winter stuff I recently pulled from the dark corners of our storage; I never keep those at the ready. The bin of shoes and accessories near our back door contains everything from hats, scarves and boots to flip flops, Crocs and sunscreen. And the outfits we Chicagoans will concoct this week? Total Midwestern Moda.

But fellow Chicagoans will never scoff at said outfits because they know better. We have a Seasonal Spring Salad Mix to choose from on a day to day basis here, depending on the weather. We are all in the same proverbial boat of weather confusion together. Except...when there's no denying the fact that we are in full on blizzard mode. Then, we take our easily accessible summer clothes, start packing and head to Miami for a much needed sunny reprieve. Yet another reason to keep your summer duds at the ready.

Midwestern Moda

by Cathy


Midwestern Moda.

This is quite the oxymoron, isn't it? If there's one thing Midwesterners aren't known for, it's being fashionable. In fact, GQ magazine recently rated Chicago as one of the worst dressed cities in the country.

On that note, let's explore perhaps why.

Last week I went to a downtown salon to get my hair did. (Perhaps it's because of the way we talk here?) The day was brisk and the weather report called for a high in the mid-60s. So I donned some cute harem-style pants I snagged in Europe last summer with my nude, cage-style strappy heels, a leather jacket and hit the town.

My stylist, Marissa, had the first chair next to the street-level window and provided a perfect spot for people watching. I saw people in summer garb with a heavy jacket thrown over, and others with down jackets complete with scarves, hats and gloves. Really, people? I concluded that they were tourists.

Marissa and I started chatting and she mentioned that she loved my shoes. Thanking her, I replied that I couldn't quite let go of my summer garb just yet, even though it was September. "I can always tell those that cling to summer," she said jokingly. "I on the other hand, have been wearing this since before Labor Day," pointing to her leggings and motorcycle boots. "I looooooove fall!" she gushed.

Being a Chicago native, born and raised, I am quite used to the fluctuations in temperature here. It can go from a high of 85 to a low of 40 in the same day, and usually does so during fall and spring. When one leaves the house in the morning, it can be a totally different season than they return home that night. So we need to be prepared for all types of weather conditions and temperature fluctuations.

As a result, I have seen some of the most ridiculous combinations of ensembles ever worn, right here in Chi-town. Down jackets with shorts and boots? Check. Down vests, shorts and socks with sandals? Check. Tank tops with scarves and velour sweatpants with flip-flops? Check. Capri pants with boots and a windbreaker? Check. Turtlenecks, short skirts with bare legs and sandals? Check. A winter coat over pajamas pants and flippers? Check. I've seen it all.

Another reason for the Cuckoo Clothes Concoctions may be storage issues. For example, you need 923 types of outwear: windbreaker, leather jacket, heavier fall jacket, light winter coat, heavy down winter coat, trench coat, jean jacket, light sweater for chilly summer nights, an in-between jacket for every season. This poses a huge storage problem for my family since there are four of us living in a one-floor condo in a six unit building, requiring all of that outerwear and much more. As such, I have to store our off-season clothes in plastic totes and shuffle them back and forth every spring and fall from our storage (four flights down) to our unit. Therefore, if I haven't gotten a chance to do the Totes Seasonal Switchout Shuffle by the time the seasons change, we are stuck looking like one of those ridiculously dressed people on the streets of Chicago; either hanging out in 70 degrees with our turtleneck sweaters or shivering our asses off in our short-sleeve polos, jean jackets and sandals.

So GQ, the next time you see us looking, well, all Midwestern and such, cut us some slack. We really don't know what season we are dressing for.