Archive for the ‘Clothes’ Category

The positives to having our Asbury Park trip shortened from four days to one:

1. The adorably decorated hotel we stayed in (I was impressed by how “layered” it is, in that Nate Berkus way) was very nice about letting us bail after one night, and didn’t charge for the rest.

2. The one day we were there was lots of fun, and we crammed in plenty, including a bit of beachfront condo-shopping. Swoon.

And most importantly:

3. Despite our proximity to the Hudson, the hurricane was much less severe by us than we’d anticipated. Still, my heart goes out to all the mamas in nearby Hoboken, some of whom had to be evacuated and are subsequently dealing with gnarly flooding.

Anyway, to kill the time indoors – and to, finally, get to the point of this blog post – I flipped through a towering stack of fall fashion mags and catalogs…

Wait, sidebar, before I really get to the point of this blog post: In September Vogue, you guys have have have to read a mother’s devastating essay about surviving 9/11. Heartbreaking. I was sobbing reading it on the way down to the Shore. But it’s ultimately uplifting, though. So git yer Vogue and READ IT.

Okay, back to superficiality.

I’ve been thinking about fall, and, by extension, my fall wardrobe. First things first, I need to do a big closet purge and finally, for the love of God, get rid of the never-been-worn mint-green pumps I picked up at a Chanel sample sale back in the 1800s. I’ve accepted the fact that I will never sell them on eBay, mainly because I’ve never even been on eBay. In fact, the very idea of online consignment kinda makes my head explode. Feels like too much work.

Once I’ve purged, I’ll have a better idea of what I might actually need moving forward. There’s a “real” job brewing, which either will or will not be locked in within the next few weeks, now that the Mercury retrograde has lifted. Should that come to pass, I’ll primarily be working from home, but will still need to look pulled-together for meetings.

But I’d love to be comfy, too. Not sloppy, though. My friend Jenny, who I’ve blogged about a lot, has the whole “work denim” thing down to a science. She’s not always in jeans, but she is a lot of the time, and she still manages to look really polished. I think the trick is in the carefully applied makeup and the piles of jewels. I’m a late-in-life convert to jewelry, but guess what? It really elevates an outfit.

Along with figuring out my own version of a work denim scenario, I’ll of course be falling back on my fail-safe: Dresses. J’adore. They are so one-stop-shoppy. You just put em on and go, the insta-outfit.

And I’m really loving this cute poplin shirt dress number from L.L. Bean Signature. I just tried to create a link for the dress itself, and it wouldn’t let me, which doesn’t bode well for ordering it. I have a paper catalog in front of me, so I’ll give that a shot once I sign off here. But it would be a pity if it’s sold out already. Grrr.

While I feel a little sorry for J. Crew because every other mom-friendly brand on the planet is cribbing from them, there is certainly something to be said for slightly lower price points. Which L.L. Bean Signature seems to have in spades. And free everyday shipping!

Now if only they’d make a non-leather, cruelty-free version of their tall waxed canvas Maine Hunting Shoe. I’d be all over that like a cheap suit.

UPDATE: The crackerjack social media team at L.L. Bean Signature just sent along the proper link to order the poplin dress. Get clicking, mamas. Because I just did and the Black Cherry shade is going f-a-s-t.

Forget Momover Lady; if I don’t get my end-of-summer wardrobe sitch under control, I will hence forth be known as Ol’ Droopy Drawers.

I don’t know how this happened, but I own exactly one pair of shorts that actually fits. Scratch that – I just kinda sorta ruined those with bleach in the wash yesterday – so now I am utterly and officially shorts-less.

Unless you count the pile sitting in my closet that are at least one – and in most cases, two – sizes too big.

Yes, I’ve lost some blubber. (Yay P90X! Yay jumping rope in the family room while marathoning ancient Sex And the City episodes!) But I also used to like to wear my shorts a little baggy. And guess what? I’m major-league past the age of rocking gangsta Bermudas.

Now, if I want to look sharp (and I do, even just puttering around the house and neighborhood), my shorts have to confirm to the actual contours of my bod. And because I’m Olsen Twin-tiny, they can’t be too long, either. If I were a long and lanky like the lady in the pic here, I could opt for this length. But clearly I’m not. Lanky-er than I used to be, but not technically lanky.

For a split second, I considered taking a pair of scissors to a few pairs of my beloved Gap Always Skinnys. But then I would be jeans-less. And jeans-less and shorts-less is too much for one mama to bear.

So this morning, right after I crank out a batch of cupcakes for a festive barbecue we’re attending tonight, I’m going shopping. (Sidebar: This is literally the yummiest cupcake mix on the planet. You will receive buckets of compliments. Trust me…)

If I don’t have any luck at the mall or Target (and there’s a really good chance of that happening, because most of the summer togs have been deep-sixed to make way for the new fall merch), I’m heading straight to the J. Crew website.

They’re having a sale, which is music to my mommy ears. I’ve already done some “pre-shopping” and have my eyeballs affixed to the chinos. Now, it’s a matter of deciding between the 9″ or the 7″ inseams. I guess I could always buy one of each, and then just ship the less-flattering length back. But that has pain-in-the-a– written all over it.

But I’ll tell you one thing: Whether they’re 9 or 7-inch inseams, they’re gonna be in my really, truly fanny size. No more droopy drawers for moi.

If I’ve ever doubted my husband’s intelligence (and Hubby, if you’re reading this, I never ever have), the fact that he CAN. NOT. STAND. to go to Target with me and the Wee Lass should be ample proof that he’s one of the smartest dudes around. Because while he just wants to dash in, grab the 12-pack of Bounty and the 20-pound bag of Iam’s Hairball Control kitty food and get on with his life, she and I could happily spend hours there.

And one day earlier this week, we did precisely that. I didn’t clock it or anything, but trust me, we were there a verrry long time.

Ostensibly, the purpose of the trek was to get the tot-lette a “get well” present, because I’d kept her out of camp for the day due to a slight fever she’d had the night before. But very quickly, I got side-tracked by the ever-growing $1 department and these cute little plastic totes I couldn’t resist. “I need one for my knitting,” I said, tossing a gray one in the cart. “And these hot pink and teal numbers for your room and playspace.”

Next it was off to women’s clothing (a navy Mossimo Boyfriend Pocket Tee had my name written all over it, especially for a miniscule 5 smackers), then lingerie, where I scored several of my new favorite bras (the super-comfy Warner’s Simply Perfect and stretchy Hanes for working out).

Then I had a mini panic attack when I saw approximately 8 million really great-looking pleather bags in the accessories department. Since I avoid leather, I’m always on the hunt for purses crafted from nylon and other synthetic materials. And for fall, Target has a truly kick-ass collection.

Especially impressive: the new Linea Pelle styles in pebbled pleather that are genuinely chic and rich-looking. I had such a hard time picking just one (and I’m sure I’ll be sneaking back for more), but finally settled on this roomy tote with nailhead trim. Love me some nailhead trim. In fact, our living room furniture is plush burgundy velvet with nailhead trim. Okay, getting off-topic now…

At this point, the Wee Lass was getting her tiny knickers in a twist. “I thought this trip was for me,” she said. “But it seems like it’s all about you.”

So off we went to the toys, where she procured yet another Barbie to add to her massive collection. This one is like Animal Rescuer Barbie, so given how much time I’d just lavished on the cruelty-free handbags, there was a certain lovely symmetry to her choice.

Along with several other utilitarian items I won’t tax your weary mama-brain with (new lunch box, thermos, etc.), I was drawn like a moth to a flame to the SATC boxed set in the DVD section. “Momover Lady,” it cooed from the shelf, where it was encased in scary wire because it’s a bit on the pricey side. “You know you want me.”

After working my way through a short internal debate (“It’s a lot o’ dough. I can watch most of the episodes for free on HBO Go. I’m not even working right now.”), I remembered the 48-hour rule. You know – that old saw about giving yourself two full days to really consider a purchase before diving in and cracking open the ol’ wallet.

Well, I’d been wanting that collection for years. 48 hours times a million.

So into the cart it went. “Wee Lass,” I said. “Dad’s gonna kill me.”

Earlier this week, at the end of a tasty lunch at Café Cluny in the West Village with my friend Maryellen (the one I’ve blogged about before with the ice-blue eyes), she mentioned that she was zipping off to the Malia Mills store in Nolita as soon as we’d settled l’addition.

“May I zip with you?” inquired Momover Lady. “I need another bikini.”

After last summer, when I squeezed myself into my trusty Vicky’s Secret “slimsuit” for our family treks to the town pool, it’s a relief to get out from under all that industrial-strength shaping. Don’t get me wrong; that’s a great suit. It’s really flattering, and I especially love the deep purple shade.

But happily, all my P90X-ing (and running, and jumping rope, and sweets-avoidance – grrr…) is giving me the gumption to wear a two-piece for the first time in years. So now, in addition to the black number I nabbed before our jaunt to Jakes this spring, I wanted to add to the coffers.

So I did. This time in a relatively more upbeat shade – Baroque Blue. (One of the things I love, love, love about Malia Mills is that it’s a Day Glo-free zone…)

I stuck with the halter-y Raquel top, which is perf for those of us who – ahem – need a little help in the lift and separation department. But for the bottom, I rather gamely opted for the Summer of Love style.

I’ve kinda got a set of you-know-whats, because it’s considerably skimpier than my It’s A Cinch, which you can adjust according to how many sinister Dora the Explorer ice cream treats and grilled cheeses you’re scarfing at said town pool.

Because these suits aren’t cheap, and I’m technically not even working right now, I figure I need to maximize my investment with several rounds of Ab Ripper X.

But it’s not just about the dough. I want to look like a mom-babe when I’m cheering the Wee Lass on as she leaps from the diving board. I always want to look like a mom-babe.

Bon weekend, my lovelies.

I’m so not an Anthro girl. While I love the stores, especially the beyond-massive Rockefeller Center outpost by my office, it’s just not my aesthetic. Except for the Velvet offerings, which always stick out like a sore thumb (in a really good, relatively-streamlined-and-solid-color way) against the printy, swirly, girly, retro-y core Anthropologie look.

So this evening, when Hubby and I attend the Manhattan bat mitzvah of his boss’s daughter, I will be clad in the frock you see here. It’s kind of soft and perfect, and will be easily re-purposed for work with flat sandals and chunky, roughed-up bijoux.

But most important, it isn’t black. I’ve blogged about this a few times, but it’s still a sizeable bee in my bonnet: Once you hit a certain age, black just sucks the life-force right out of your face. And this is coming from someone who has lived in Gotham since college, and who, until quite recently, had 14 black dresses hanging in her closet. Alongside shelf after shelf of black tops and sweaters.

In my opinion, black is fine for your –s. I would even venture to say that if your lower body isn’t your strong suit, black is even advisable.

But on top, it’s a different tale altogether. And personally, I’m switching it up. With the addition of this new number, my navy dress count is inching skyward. Right now I have about 7, including some super-casual beachy looks in terry.

And I’m not alone in this new obsession. Last night, I helped celebrate my dear bud Maryellen’s birthday at a yummy restaurant in Brooklyn. She looked great – she always looks great – but here’s why she looked extra-great: She was wearing a really pretty silky, satiny Vince top in…navy. Just like moi, Maryellen has blue eyes and fair, Celtic coloring, so navy is crazy-flattering on her.

Okay, I think I’ve more than made my “yay blue!” point. Time to forage for breakfast and enjoy my Saturday. Go navy!

We have a very simple compliment-equation around these parts. When I’m wearing a dress, I get a solid round of applause from You Know Who. When I’m not, I know better than to ask my super-fancy tot-let if she likes my outfit. Because while she won’t out-and-out criticize, it’s not the cheery thumbs up I receive when I’m clad in a frock.

It’s summer, and hot as the blazes in Gotham, so dresses are my new daily uniform. Happily, I have millions. A vast collection acquired over far too many sweltering Junes, Julys and Augusts spent slumped over a computer in a dreary midtown Manhattan office.(Okay, not all of them were dreary…)

If I were working from home – oh how I wish I were working from home – I’d be sporting a different kind of uniform: shorts, tank or T, and those navy Fuggs I bought in the winter. I loooooooove those things. They are basically the only footwear I putter around in at home. (We have a no-shoes policy chez moi, and my navy Fuggs have never been outdoors.)

But back to the Wee Lass and her compliments. I think it’s really nice that she thinks I’m beautiful and says so with abandon – especially on “dress days.”

I don’t remember saying that to my own mother ever.  And as a kid and teenager, I just didn’t “get” her style. She grew up in Connecticut, was a teen in the 1940s and swooned over Frank Sinatra the same way I used to freak out over the Sex Pistols and The Clash. Translation: She was big on pencil skirts. And everything was tailored.

When you’re a kid, and your friends’ moms are wearing bell-bottoms and Earth Shoes, it feels uncool to see your mom trotting around in a pencil skirt and pumps.

But I should have told her she looked great anyway. Because, now, in hindsight, I know she totally did.

I must be feeling mighty brave lately, because I’m taking fashion cues from both my pint-size tot and a group of über-chic mommies I’ve been interviewing for a fashion story I’m collaborating on for work.

Yes, after my beyond-hideous first encounter with them, I actually found myself at Gap this week trying on a pair of their Denim Leggings again. And miracle of all miracles, they looked decent enough for me to plunk down the plastic.

Why oh why would I do this, you ask? Mostly because I’m becoming increasingly convinced that a skinny jean silhouette is the way to go. It just looks neater, cleaner and a smidge more womanly than other cuts when you’re rush, rush, rushing to get your kids plunked in front of Miss Crabapple before the last bell rings.

I still totes love trouser jeans, but you can’t wear flats with them. Not unless you’re about six feet tall and weigh about 5 pounds. Which I’m not. And I don’t. But even then, I don’t think they’d look especially great. A low heel with a trouser jean just throws the entire proportion off. So I reserve mine for the office and date nights with the Hubster.

After chatting with the aforementioned hot mamas (they’re all stylists and designers), all of whom swear by either leggings or the skinniest jeans they can get their mitts on – and seeing how super-comfy the Wee Lass is in her Children’s Place jeggings – I decided to take the plunge.

The Gap I went to didn’t have the black version pictured here, so I got the darkest navy rinse available. That’s key. Though I’m now just (barely) slim enough to attempt jeggings, I’m not gonna push my luck with any light washes.

I don’t like light denim anyway, in any cut, because it just isn’t hip. That’s a fact. So it’s either black, gray, white or dark navy. Bright colors are crazy-trendy right now, especially red, but I don’t think I’ll be partaking.

Another “rule”: Cover your –s. But not necessarily with a top that’s insanely baggy, although there are a lot of cute floaty numbers available now. For me, because I’m miniature, I’m opting for tops that are snuggish but loooong, so my rear is camouflaged. That’s the only way I, personally, can semi-rock jeggings.

The goal: A long, lean, city-stomping, drop-off machine.

It’s a measure of how lowkey my life is that I’ve been pretty much counting the days until the Calypso St. Barth collaboration collection washed ashore at Target. I’ve always loved the vibe of that line, and when we lived in Tribeca, near one of the Calypso shops, I owned waaaaaay too many of those crinkly Pazzi dresses. Oh, and the wrap dress, too, the one that you tie like you’re doing jiu jitsu. I even have Pazzi tops.

So, in other words, my wardrobe is a trifle Calypso-centric.

But that didn’t stop me from getting all hopped-up about the new stuff. And today was the big day, when I’d finally be able to plunk down the plastic. I’d already done a mental edit, by sifting through a preview online. I was ready to rumble.

Here’s where I dropped the ball: Instead of making sure I was prowling the clothing department shortly after my local Tar-jay opened, I dove into myriad Sunday morning chores. I did Ab Ripper X and jumped rope while catching up on a little Bethenny Ever After. I vacuumed. I Swiffered. I did laundry. I changed sheets. I restored order to the Wee Lass’s room because it looked like FAO Schwarz had exploded all over her Pepto Bismol-pink carpet.

Still, I got there at 1. One p.m. on a Sunday is fairly early for a Target run, right? Don’t most nice individuals go to church and have brunch first before gearing up to push that bright red shopping buggy?

Apparently not. At least not the women-folk. By the time I got there, the racks were already picked clean. So after all that hoping and dreaming, I got exactly one dress.

Sadness.

But the Wee Lass made out like a chic little bandit. I got her:

this

this

this

this

this

and this

Adorable. At least one of us will be looking like a brightly-hued hottie this spring.

It’s a truism, and not some manufactured-in-Hollywood-bulls–t, that women employed by the marquée name magazines based in New York wear massive, mondo, skyscraper-level heels. From interns to overlords, it is allll about high and mighty footwear.

But here’s what’s also written in stone: That once you move off a masthead, and start mixing up your magazine-ing with mommy-ing, you will get out of “high heel head” and will have a very hard – nay, almost impossible – time swapping out your flat boots and Birks for six-inch heels.

Still, it must be done. Especially if you’re Olsen Twin-tiny, like moi.

After being surrounded by chic giraffes at my guest-editing gig this past week, that point was driven home to me, yet again, in this cute piece in the Times by hot mama / Glamour Editor In Chief Cindi Leive. It’s basically a peek into her wardrobe, and there’s much chatter about shoes, and the high-heel peer pressure the 5 foot 2 inch dynamo is under.

“Once I had a bum ankle and was ordered to wear flats,” Leive writes. “I felt as if I was walking into the office naked.”

So now that I’ve accepted my situation – that I need to get high again, stat – my mission is to somehow combine comfort with altitude. Though there has been endless ink spilled about Spring 2011′s sensible high shoes, specifically “flatforms,” I’ll be damned if I can find any non-leather (i.e., vegan-friendly) numbers in my size. And trust me when I tell you that I’ve been looking.

But I think I just need to sleuth a little harder. Maybe once I dispense with this morning’s chores (P90X and a “friends are coming over” emergency house tidying), I’ll go hunting. Because I’m sure there are other miniaturized mamas in the same boat, and I need to help every last one of us.

I’m gearing up to go back to my guest-editing gig next week, and I’ve decided I need to get insanely organized, wardrobe-wise. Because I have to schlep the Wee Lass to school before work, I’ll have not one second to dilly, dally and dither over what I’m wearing.

Sadness. I excel at dillying, dallying and dithering.

Right now, I’m in full-on add and subtract mode. On the addition front, I nabbed this cute teal Jovovich Hawk top at Target yesterday. Technically, it’s a dress – part of the relaunch of all the designer collaborations that’s been getting so much buzz lately – but there’s no way in hell I’ll be attempting to wear it as such. Perhaps if it were six inches longer. Or I were six years younger…

Still, I’m happy to report that, for once, when I looked at my reflection in the three-way mirror clad in my bra and undies, I felt downright pleased as punch. All my P90X-ing is completely, utterly paying off. So much so that I’m contemplating a second go-round once I wrap the first one in two weeks. We’ll see…

And speaking of my undies, or more specifically my undie drawer, I need to do a ruthless edit. I’ve lost a little weight, and quite a few inches, so there’s really no need to have so much precious real estate taken up by my vast collection of Spanx and Assets, the lower-priced line also designed by Sara Blakeley.

Don’t get me wrong; they’re both great collections. Total confidence-boosters for so many women looking to rein it all in. In fact, I think I read recently that Oprah has an entire room devoted to Spanx. That’s true love.

And that’s also why I’m not chucking my stash wholesale. Rather, I’m gonna bundle up all the bottoms (i.e., the bike shorty numbers that harness a mama’s wayward booty) and put them in storage. Some of the camisoles I’ll keep on hand, especially the nude ones. Those are are great under sheer tops and dresses.

For me, my problem area is definitely south of the torso. And even now, when I’m pretty trim, I still have a total bubble behind in my Gap Always Skinny jeans. And my upper thighs can be a little irksome, which is why I also swear by trouser jeans.

But right now, it’s all under control. As long as I keep up with my endless squats and lunges. And some lower-body move Tony Horton calls Heavy Pants. I just moved up to 10 pound weights for Heavy Pants, but watching this tough chick on YouTube is making me realize what I wimp I am.

At least I’m a happy wimp. And a Spanx-less wimp, to boot.