Archive for the ‘Fashion’ Category
There is nothing more attractive than smart, multilingual, creatively passionate and accomplished women. I think we can all agree on that. I don’t know if I have a crush on Kristin Scott Thomas, or if I just want to be her.
Scroll through most Myspace band pages and you’ll see flash ads along the side columns for a snarky message tee company. All that insta-cool to be had for $34.99! The hipsters are all wearing them! Styley plastic sunglasses-clad kids are looking all “I just grabbed this off my floor and threw on a pair of vans and got on my cruiser bike” with their American Apparel tees, proclaiming something witty (sometimes) and standing against a brick wall in Encino, headed to a free show at a gas station (because THAT is punk rawk).
Let’s all have a moment of nostalgia and think back to the late 70’s iron-on
tshirt shops. You picked out your shirt size and color, and then the art from stacks of binder books with images divided into categories like “girls” “boys” and “adults only” (Lord knows what was in those, I was five). Most were appropriate for that moment in time; my sister’s was a rip off of an ACDC album title. Mine was light pink, and I chose a cartoon drawing of a kidney bean dancing in a rainbow field of flowers with the message above proclaiming “I’m a human bean”. Awesome.
I’ve been temporarily tempted to buy into the message tee when I see something especially awesome like this one, available from Smash, whose message tees focus on their homestate of Iowa but has a few good general ones too:
or this one from Delia’s (who actually has a reliably cool selection but alas is cut for 10 year olds):
And there’s the classic Neighborhoodies, whose price points have kept me just out of reach from ordering pride shirts for my various SF neighborhoods for YEARS (though I am still considering “Lower Rockridge” because that’s just plain funny, and only to people who live within 3 square blocks of my house). Their readymades are often smart:
Ultimately, while trying to narrow down a choice, I realize that it’s ridiculous to condense my outfit’s intention for a day into a little snippy comment on culture, politics or certainly Team Britney. It’s a bumper sticker for my boobs. And it’s probably not going to be funny to me for long. And it smacks of “think I’m cool please”. And I just can’t commit. But I still browse. Looking for that “one” to make me overcome my hispter annoyance and dive on in.
I’ve been cooking since 1979. That was the summer I created an awful thing called “raisin stew” while sitting on the step-stool of my family kitchen, throwing bits of Triscuit, orange segment, milk and raisins into a plastic bowl and pronouncing it revolutionary. I created a recipe card to accompany this feat, which is likely tucked away in my mother’s scrapbook papers somewhere. My sister made gagging noises just to look at it, but I was fascinated by the idea of creating something new and exciting from simple ingredients (hmm, sound familiar?).
Fast forward twenty years, and I’ve been working as a private chef for 10 years. My clients’ needs vary, from an in-home business dinner where the stakes are high and the guest is crabby, to a casually ridiculous birthday party where the guests break into the samba before the dessert course is even served. I do all the shopping, cooking, serving, table setting, mood making so they don’t have to.
Throughout this time I’ve done huge weddings, company launch parties, bachelorette parties, you name it. I catered with several high end companies and for a short time even operated my own. And what I’m getting to is this: In all these years I’ve not had a single decent fitting chef coat or mildly attractive pair of pants. And the shoes, well, let’s not even start on the shoes.
Below is a standard chef coat one would pull out of the uniform closet in a restaurant in any city. You grab your size, throw it on over your concert tee, grab a quad espresso and get to your station:
Note the complete lack of shape, awful shiny plastic buttons and all-over ill fit for any female cook (which believe me, is still a rare sight). I modified the look slightly in my early days by tightly wrapping a service apron at my natural waist to create a sort of high-waisted pencil skirt shape. This helped only slightly because the rest of the outfit was comprised of:
Green plastic gardening clogs (perhaps a crocs precursor).
and
Standard poly-blend checked chef pants with a tapered leg (oh joy). Note there are typically only men’s pants available.
Back when I started cooking, the hip chef fashion pant was Chefwear’s “Baggies” line: elastic waistband and tightly tapered, decorated with your choice of patterns- clip art-like renderings of chili peppers, koi fish, tobasco bottles, whatever. Mine were covered in green and red grape clusters- a fashion choice I still stand by considering the other options. I used to have a link to the full “look” but it has now disappeared from the internets out of embarrassment.
Not being so much in the “industry” anymore, I could afford to be progressive with my chefwear and break out into something new. I do still need to represent with a proper chef coat, and there are a few nice looking ones (with cloth covered buttons, tapered waists, or mandarin collars), but even those women-shaped options are just so predictable in style. Decent, but still uninteresting. White or black coat (or denim.. the reason for this option escapes me completely). Check pants or black pants. Dansko clogs. Blah.
So here’s the final question: how to cultivate a uniform “look” while not actually wearing a uniform? Where to find well cut pieces that will stand up to frequent washings, oil splatters and pomegranate molasses? A few pockets, some natural fibers, smart clean lines and we’re in business.
Remember that scene in Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead where Sue Ellen (Christina Applegate) turns a uniform factory into a modern and hip high fashion line?
No, you say you were three when that movie came out?
Help.
Ok, so it's warm now. We throw our sweaters joyfully into storage and comb through the pile of shorts and summer dresses to see what still works, and make a list of what we need immediately (which typically involves flip flops and tanks). On my immediate needs list: shoes.
Last year the gladiator/flat jesus sandal was happening but just didn't work for me with shorts. I am not blessed with long lovely legs, so putting a flat shoe with a short or cropped pant just makes me look like a squatty clown. But it's freaking summer and I'm not going to walk around in heels, though I tried like hell last year, even while walking the streets of NYC (our resident friends must get so tired of trying to counsel their visitors into wearing sensible shoes.. I imagine everyone comes wanting to represent fashion and goes home with blisters).
So there are some really interesting sandals happening right now, and
most of them are in beige which I think is nice for a summer wardrobe
that is likely to be popping with bright color but needs to feel light.
I saw these all over the spring lookbooks (cause I roll that way and
no one will sneak me into the actual shows) and was super excited about
the possibility of getting a long-leg result with mid-thigh shorts, all without looking like I should also have a fanny pack.
Then
the other day I happened upon a bright colored pair of platform sandals
and was immediately in love. They have more edge than the nude ones
(and these in particular take themselves far less seriously than those
above). Roll those jeans or boyfriend-cut pants (read not skinny, not
wide) up to mid-calf, throw on a loose jersey blouse and a fun bangle-y
bracelet or pendant and call it a day.
It's like what the color
flat does for an uninspired uniform of jeans and tees. Just a little
pop of color and you can get away with wearing really simple stuff. It
gives the leg a nice line, even when you're wearing cropped pants or longer shorts.
Here's the pair I'm rocking:
My friend Teresa The Stylist would not look kindly on this blanket advice, and would not appreciate the idea of throwing out a "look" that assumes every body type will work with. But I gotta say it did wonders for my Saturday morning and made me feel like a hip mama.
Oddly, we spent the afternoon walking around picnic sites at Crown Memorial State Beach (which is NOT where a platform sandal is best displayed).. but I did confirm that they are comfortable!
We recently went to the Oakland Lakeshore Farmer's Market after nearly a yearlong absence. It's always been a pretty big deal, with the kid entertainment, produce and fruit purveyors from one end of the Bay to the other (and far beyond- Rainbow Orchards from ElDoradoCounty has a booth!), live music, loads of specialty booths like the rotisserie chicken guy and the oyster guy, and of course great food booths where one can find amazing snacks such as a Himalayan chicken pita, a vegan soul food plate, organic beef tamales or fresh samosas.
These things all in check, I felt at home again. We grabbed a macaroon (family fave, and it better be for $3 a pop) and settled into the grassy hill among the natives. But slowly, the crowd evolved and it became clear that something had changed. Once a cute meet-up and coffee spot on a Saturday morning, it is now a bonafide scene, with hot girls of all persuasions, shirtless toned dads, rasta families, college kids, cool grannies, hipsters and yes, moms with strollers. It's like a rainbow celebration of humankind and the best of Oakland all at once. The music used to be a simple guitar based trio. Now, it's a full-on multi-culti dance party (last week started Soca and turned HipHop in a matter of minutes and ended up Reggaeton) with folks bouncing and shaking it on the cement music area to the point that the musicians were completely obscured. All hands in the air, sweaty good old fashioned dance party. It can best be described as going OFF. And in broad daylight!
I was tempted to join the party but had bumped into an old friend who apparently goes weekly with her hipster friends, and we had just settled down for a coconut espresso on the shady grass where my daughter was doing laps around us to burn energy. The water fountain was shooting away and kids were stripping down to panties and sandals while the parents cruised other parents. You know how it is; checking their presentation on some sort of point system.. the less of a "parent" you look like the better.. women all bespangled with cool calm hip Oakland vibe, young men who could obviously be out playing but are attentively pushing their baby stroller instead (and even a happily married dyke such as myself is not immune to the sex appeal of that occurence).
So instead I people-watched in amazement. Clearly, this is where the beautiful people come to buy their organic produce and then stick around to see and be seen. My wife, clad in a tshirt that proclaims the name of our daughter's preschool and a basic pair of shorts and converse felt incredibly underdressed. Or maybe just under-hip. It occured to me, watching these packs of incredibly cute looking dykes strolling the venue (single and childless for sure, but not all that young and still looking tight!) that we don't even have the wardrobe anymore to front like the farmer's market crowd. A Power Look for interfacing with some snobby real estate broker? Check. Casually comfortable done with luxury labels and a handbag that makes the Marina chicks drool? Check. But Oaklandish-cool we don't really do. I'm pretty sure I don't even speak that language anymore. But I see it, and I recognize it and I kinda sorta think I need to at least remember how that feels, so I'm sure that I'm not just getting old and cranky and selling my uniqueness short for a Max Azria sundress (and oooooh how I love them).
In the end I was thrilled (slight ego bruise aside) to see such great representation of what Oakland consists of. This incredibly communal feeling energy and such beautiful representation of every possible color of skin, all mixed families from every possible background coming together. I love it here. Now if I could only remember where I put my edge. I think it's buried somewhere under a pile of skinny jeans.