My sandals, purchased spontaneously while trekking to NYU last year in an attempt matriculate and move eastward (Saga. I didn’t go.), have finally given out after a year of heavy use. Nothing compares to a really awesome pair of $20 surprise sandals from a place you just ducked into to escape the rain. And now, perusing Zappos, I realize they are gone forever and I find myself stranded in a fashion quandary. It is Indian Summer here and we’re gearing up for two more months of beach weather while the rest of the country (and the shoe industry) breaks out the boots and jeans and falling tree leaves.

Northern California fashion, particularly East Bay fashion, is complicated for so many reasons. First of all, you’re surrounded by people in yoga pants and Patagonia zip-ups, who consider high fashion a trip to the Börn store. There’s this prevalent Etsy craftsy outdoorsy sort of look here. It involves clogs and bags from the Maker Faire, Timbuk2 messenger bags, little sustainable carved bamboo earrings and handmade leather items. This look is easily passed off as “comfortable”, but what people miss is that it’s a look that’s entirely value-based. Things are locally sourced. Organic. Charming and arty, as an extension of a personality that values social responsibility and art programs in schools.

It practically comes with an HRC bumpersticker. I totally get it. But there’s something about that look that’s so inherently responsible. Like that person would never sleep in too late and miss work, blow the day off having great sex with a cute bartender.

That person would freak out about the very idea of sex with a bartender. That person would want to scurry to the library and check out a book with that theme immediately, but would never act out so. Her therapist would advise against it.

After the private school fundraiser this year, I had learned that drinking three mojitos was not a good precursor to silent auction bidding and I barely escaped purchasing home delivery of four weeks of pastured eggs for $180.

The tshirt buying went somewhat the same way as they make those paypal transactions incredibly painless and before you know it, your bank account has been drained and your mailman is shoving cute white envelopes through your door.

The tees, all in all, are awesome. The tragedy struck when I realized nearly all the ones I had chosen were 80’s themed.

Nicely folded in my drawer now are Lloyd Dobler holding his boombox over his head, Miss Scarlet in the Ballroom with the Leadpipe, and lots and lots of printed references to Analog being of superior quality, surrounded by images of cassette tapes.

Around this time, the tax refund check came and I splurged on something ridiculous I had been eyeing. Anyone recognize these new additions to my garden?

I freaked and got a bunch of brand new music and proceeded to watch The Social Network three times to shock my nostalgia into submission. But secretly, I’m totally geeked.

I just HAD to have a glass of wine. The house is (finally) quiet: all family members sleeping, all dogs admonished from couches, dishwasher empty, laundry load put in. I can attempt to distill the ideas that are rocketing around in my head into coherent thoughts.

First, I am SO excited about dinnerparty- my new company. I’ll be throwing dinner parties in super secret non-traditional dining spaces. This summer I’ll host a series of high-end events to get things flowing. My lovely wife will be photographing the magic for all to ogle.  I can’t give much away but to say that the first event is based on a classic children’s story…  I can’t wait!

Secondly, I’ve started rehearsing for a spring concert. Solo, perhaps? Not sure yet. Two songs are in the pipeline after a two hour session last week and there are more on the verge. They basically write themselves. I just catch them as they’re falling into place and put them in the right order. In my younger years I didn’t care much about craft, and several friendships with good  songwriters were ended over method (I can’t get down with grinding it out. What’s the point?). I like to think I’m a bit more focused now, with scheduled rehearsals and all.

Anyway, there’s the plan. Coming to a venue near you, if you live within 12 square blocks from my house on the Oakland-Berkeley border. Ha.

Thirdly, spring is on the move. The rest of the country is feeling ill from cold and sloggy freezing awful blizzard apocalypse while we in the Bay Area are casually watching birds flit about in the sun and expecting the bulbs to peek out of the ground any day. Tortuous, but true. These warm, delightful mornings make me think of two things:

HEY it’s tax time, you better get it together

and, simultaneously,

HEY it’s time to update my wardrobe- when can I go shopping?

Clearly tax time does not get along well with wardrobe reshaping. They hang in midair together, having a staring contest and trying to look mean all through February until one gives in. Typically fashion trumps.

What is a look book, you ask? You probably don’t ask that but just in case… it’s a little booklet (or large binder, in my case) full of inspiration and fun things you run across as the weather changes that will inform your buying decisions and fashion objectives for the next season. For instance, I spent nearly two years wrapped up in the idea of “sexy librarian” and have the look book to prove it. You know, cabernet lips, liquid liner, tweedy fitted skirts with the slightest flirty trumpet flare at the bottom, round-toed pumps and fitted sweaters, dark tights and the ubiquitous bun or chic ponytail. Sexy librarian.

I have before me several months worth of magazines to tear through before I finish this glass of wine and high-tail it upstairs.

Night all, and happy thaw.

Finally listen to the newest Grace Potter which I was so excited about I accidentally ordered three separate times.

And try to get someone to take me to Remedy for a scone.

Simple, but worth sacrifice, all.

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.

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.

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!

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.

I have recently returned to “real life” from an intense three month project, and am still reeling from the triumph of succeeding even while keeping the bills paid, introducing the toddler to preschool, keeping up at work and turning into a “suit and tie girl” temporarily in order to satisfy the powers that be (apparently the powers that be prefer their people clad in navy pinstipes, which concerns me on many levels).

Getting back to life is a bit surreal right now. I spent the last three months kvetching about having to wear formal work attire to satisfy a temporary dress code, but try as I did, I could not keep myself from the dark dress slacks and neutral top this morning. My first day of freedom and I have completely toed the line. My hair ultimately went up into the standard issue ponytail by midday, though I tried so hard to procure a more flowing “woman of the moment”, carefree look.

Then there’s my time management. Before I entered this program, I was scrambling to get home for dinner on time, scrambling often to get home from work before 11pm. Now total control of my working hours seems luxurious and I can’t imagine complaining about it. Today I noticed how much of my time I allow my work to swallow, time for which I have nothing to show. I also noticed that my “maintenance” projects like doing the floral arrangements, cooking and serving dinner, reviewing the weekly staff calendar, rushing cars to maintenance, reviewing projects and working out scheduling issues, leave me feeling empty and unaccomplished. They are the average day-to-day in my job, nothing spectacular, though they are an integral part of making my client’s lives flow smoothly and their home seem well cared-for. Somehow in the rush to build the great wall I have lost respect for my own time and responsibilities and I need to find it again.

And then there’s the requisite “so what now?” that my wife wasted no time in asking. She was part, I think, hoping I’d say “I’m going to hang out, be easy going, and cook you breakfast every morning”, assuming she is also ready to get her life back. But also, she’s asking because that’s how we operate. Onward!

I am still a little too tired to answer these questions. There’s the work stuff to iron out, the family life quality to gague, the future and all the fun projects that for the next week at least will live on only in my notebook. I’m having one more glass of unimpressive Rioja and heading upstairs to set the alarm for a new day. One I hope carries me to answers for all these questions I’m carrying around in my standard issue handbag.