I'm Half the Fashionista I Used to Be

Today I did something that I thought I would never do. I did something that makes me a hypocrite in the worst way, something that makes me question my devotion to everything I hold dear to me, something that I might never get over.

Today, I wore a dress over a pair of pants.

That is not me, by the way. That is a picture of some starlet that I found over at Go Fug Yourself.

Up until today, I felt the same away as the Fug Girls about wearing dresses over pants. I thought it was at best stupid and at worst unhinged. But then Allie at My Wardrobe Today (I am trying to link that, but the links are being weird--it's making my whole paragraph blue. It's my technical stupidity, I'm sure. So if the link doesn't work...sorry.) wore a dress over jeans while on vacation and it also looked a lot cuter than what we see above, so this morning when I couldn't find anything to match the new headband I got on the clearance rack at Target last night, I went for my green shift. The thing is, I had four students today, and if I wear the shift by itself, I have to wear heels. I knew my legs could not take both the students and the heels all day. I also knew that I had a kind of sheltered, pervy kid today, and a shorter dress is probably more of a "Don't threaten me with a good time" look rather than a look that says, "If the subject is plural, the verb had to be plural too!". So I put on my Gap Curvy Bootcuts, some big ole gold hoops, a bunch of bangles and my brown stacked flops from J.Crew. I checked the mirror. Like I said, the dress is kind of short--if I'm not careful and am not wearing the jeans you can be my gynecologist if you so desire. It kind of looked worldly, especially with my brown and ivory zebra print headband. I could be a hip globetrotting writer...or a standardized test tutor. I smacked on some lipgloss and headed out the door.

The day went well. No one commented, although what can you expect from a group who thinks the white Chuck Taylors count as dress shoes? Then I got home from my last lesson, came home and stretched out on my bed, and gazed at the husband. This is our conversation, as verbatim as I can remember it:

Matt: What are you wearing? Is that a dress over pants?

Me: Yeah, well....it's a short dress. Over pants.

Matt: I thought you hate that.

Me: Well, I do, I guess (pretend to be interested in American Justice).

Matt: Then why are you wearing it? It looks kind of weird.

Me: What do you mean "weird"?

Matt: You know that girl we knew who lived in the French house and smoked clove cigarettes? That girl who used to write weird things on her boobs? The one that wore the fur boots and said the word "existential" a lot. You look like her.

Me: (sigh, evil look, the sound of sudden acquisition of horrible headache for the next five nights)

Matt: Just so you know, that's not a good thing. (Looks at me). I'll be quiet now.

Back to American Justice. I really think Mumia killed that dude.

Anyway, I guess I'm not wearing this outfit again. It's a shame too, because it was really comfortable.

I guess that brings us to fashion rule numero uno: looking good doesn't necessarily feel good. And fashion rule numero two: husbands suck.

A Trip to The Village

First off, before I talk about my trip to a fancy-dancy mall, let me say that, growing up, my house, was right behind a motel called "The Village." It was a classy place, mostly catering to the men who worked for the power company, and pastors sleeping with the more dedicated members of their congregations. The thing I remember most about it is the sign in the front that never failed to have at least one light burned out, so it was always "T e V ll g ote" or somethng else as vague. When I learned to read, I would always very cleverly point out the missing letters, and what I thought the sign now said, punctuating things with a loud guffaw at my own humor. My mom would always purse her lips, and probably curse The Village under her breath. At the time, I thought she thought I was witty. Now that I'm older and a mother myself, I'm surprised she didn't call more babysitters.

Anyway, that is what I think of when I think "The Village," not a fancy mall. But today, because I had a student cancel on me, and because I can think of nothing I would rather do than sashay around a fancy mall whilst charging a hefty missed lesson fee, I visited the second Village, the one "at Corte Madera." Now, let me explain something: I work in Marin County, and I do all of my tutoring there, but I don't live there. There's one reason for that: I'm much, much too poor. Marin County is the place good yuppies go when Daddy dies. And, were I to have a rich relative who decided to kick it in the next two years or so, it is where I would most certainly buy a place. So, because of my poorness, I like to gaze at Marin Co. from afar, and once in awhile, pretend that I am cool enough to live there. That was my plan today. I walked into The Village, wearing my totally awesome leopard print flats (no one can tell they are from Target), and stalked around like it was for sale and the rent was due tonight. I either looked totally awesome, or like a raving idiot. But my hair looked damn good, so let's say "awesome."

There are a few things to think about when visiting a fancy mall. First off, there's no Auntie Anne's, and that blows. Second, you can't buy a freaking Philly cheesesteak anywhere. Third, (and I promise this is not about food), there are no Spencer's Gifts or any of those stores that sell nothing but athletic shoes and purple suits. It's something to get used to. But the good news is, you get Nordstrom instead. And, friends, there are no amounts of black light posters, incense, or fatty sandwiches that can equal the majesty that is a Nordstrom. More about that in a bit.

Here are the things that I don't like about fancy malls: 1) the sale section in Anthropologie, 2) the lack of food, 3) the fact that these people seem have eschewed air conditioners and fountains in favor of an outdoor "village feel," 4) the fact that no matter what I have on, I feel under dressed. Since most of those are self-explanatory, allow me to rant briefly on #1.

I have been to two Anthropologie's now--the one in Berkeley and the one in Corte Madera. I have bought quite a few things at the one in Berkeley, and most of them have been on sale. The sale section there is in a closet sized room, but the workers there are mostly students at UC, and are pretty nice and helpful. You can go in, find something, tell them what size you need, and they get it, show you something that will match, and then escort you out and to a dressing room. It's a nice experience. Not so at the Corte Madera store. First off, the sale section is again in a closet sized room, but I felt better of it because a few sale items had spilled out into the store at large, so things looked nice. That's before I stepped into The Room. The Room was roughly two degrees less than the surface of the sun. I don't know how it got so hot--maybe it was the lack of windows and the yards and yards of unwanted fabric lining the walls and floors in haphazard heaps. Maybe it was the sweaty, unwashed bodies of the poor being forced in like cattle. Inside The Room, girls worked elbow to elbow pulling out skirts and holding them up like silks at a bazaar. And because this is a great melting pot of a country, and an even greater melting pot of a region, no one in The Room spoke the same language. I definitely heard Spanish, German, and something that sounded Scandinavian while looking for a kimono dress. I know you're thinking that that's a misapproximation, but I'm being totally serious. This, with the heat and the many tongues, was like the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory of shopping. I finally found a dress in my size, and for the lovely, lovely price of $49.95, and fought my way out to take it to the dressing room. Once I got out, I looked for any available salesperson to perhaps show me to the dressing room. There were none. I finally saw one girl, but when I walked over to her, she turned around and started talking to someone else. I must have stood there for 10 minutes, my body heavy with the scent of The Room and poorness. Finally, I gave up, went back into The Room, where I shoved the dress onto a rack, and got the hell out. That kind of pisses me off. There's a shirt that I want from the Anthropologie website (and it's full price, natch), but something about the whole experience left me a little....hmmm...I don't know.

I didn't feel so poor and unwashed, however, when I stepped into Nordstrom. Nordstrom is the store I go to to wash off every bad shopping experience I've ever had. I luff me some Nordstrom. And I found my mod little jacket with the big buttons! I am so excited. Of course, it is still in the car, because I'm going to need to show my husband how cute I am in it before I tell him how much I paid for it....anyway, I may take a picture of it, as I am so happy with it.

My trip to The Village ended up a caesar salad and an iced tea at Boudin. It was a nice day, as most days are that end up with iced tea.

More Blatant Evidence That the Universe Does Not Want Me to Be Sexy

The world evidently has no use for sexy standardized test extraordinnaires, because once again, cosmic intervention is showing me that it's not meant for me to be sexy.

My mom is coming to town, so this morning I got up a whole hour before I had to go to work, took a nice long shower, BLOW DRIED MY FREAKING HAIR, and did my make up with appropriate amounts of blush so that I will not be deemed "pale" by said mom. I then put on the snakeskin pumps that you see about two posts down, a cute top, the only jeans that fit, and jangly earrings. I felt that I totally looked the part of successful, bicoastal daughter.

Except for the fact that I'm not.

Yes, the universe reminded me of that. The heels on these shoes are freaking thin. No sooner had I walked out the door that I started to tumble down the porch. Nice. I recovered, and walked down the walk to my car, where I totally wiped out on the sidewalk, scraping my ankle all to hell and dumping several key items out of my purse in the process. Now, I'm not going to claim that I'm the world's best at wearing heels, but I've done it enough to where falling twice in about a 30 second span of time is not normal.

So I get in the car, and put on my Ipod, as I figure that I need to pep myself back up into sexy fighting form. I sing to a mixture of Jet, Peaches, and Christina Aguilera on the way over the bridge. I am back. I am again fierce. I keep the Ipod on, and walk into the building, trying to imagine that I am on a catwalk with Ms. Jay from ANTM and he is wearing something appropriately ridiculous and probably involving feathers. I am walking like it is for sale and the rent is due tonight. Again, feeling good.

Yeah, but then, there's this work thing. And there are two of us in the office today. So it's busy (and yes, I know I shouldn't be taking out the time to type this, SHUT UP). To make matters worse, I started feeling weird. So now I'm quite sure that I have a urinary tract infection, which is about the most unsexy thing that one could get, except for maybe genital herpes, but even that has those commercials where good looking people talk about having outbreaks and crap, and hell, even Paris Hilton has freaking herpes. So I'm sitting here, twitching in my office chair, and twitching is not sexy.

I would growl, but I don't think that is sexy either.

To this, I only these words to say: What the hell, universe? What the hell? What do I have to do for you, you fickle bitch? Is it because I watch Rock of Love? Should I be spending my time in a soup kitchen instead? Goddammit, I spend way too much of my time with teenagers, don't I deserve to have a little adult fun?

I'm going to the bathroom now. On the way there, I'm going to try to be sexy. Which means I will fall. Most likely in front of some janitors or something.

Va Va Voom Lips, and Why I'm Hopelessly Unsexy

So anyone who knows me personally knows at least two things about me. 1) I'm gullible enough to be taken into just about any marketing ploy and 2) I'm a slut at heart. Not that I'm promiscuous or anything--I'm married to my high school sweetheart, and prefer to keep it that way, but I definitely have a predilection towards the sluttier looks and actions in life. I think it is because my hero is one Blanche Devereaux. Whatever. But anyway, with me, it's always the more cleavage the better, and I love to pine away looking at black pencil skirts and back seam fishnet hose.

Part of this look is, of course, red lips. I, however, have never owned a tube of red lipstick, and have always felt hopelessly scared by the stuff. Even though I have read countless fashion magazine articles about how to pull it off, I've always imagined myself buying it, putting it on, and then wham bam thank you ma'am--I'm transformed into Baby Jane. Although playing the part of Baby Jane won me some high school accolades in a drama competition (I went all out, bitches--you should have seen my hair), this is not a look I would like to revisit.

So imagine my excitement at finding Cover Girl's Tru Shine lipcolor collection, a collection that promises to match my skin tone and flatter my lips with any shade. It promises! It even says something about flattering 97% of skin tones. Now, if they had said 100%, I would have called bullshit, and perhaps I wouldn't have bought the product. But 97% sounds scientific, like this was all done in a lab, and out of their 100 models, three looked like ass, so they called it a day and slapped this 97% guarantee on it. It seems honest. Of course, I snap up Valentine Shine, which is a red lipstick. Hey, it promised! Va va va voom lips for the Morgan McSluttygirl!

So I buy the product, and on a day when I'm wearing all black, and thus need a pop, I pull it out. First off, putting lipstick on is a lot harder than I thought it was. To be quite honest, I never buy it--I always buy gloss, but I didn't think there was any huge change. Here's the deal though--you can't put lipstick on while hurdling toward the Richmond bridge at 70 mph. It requires precise detail--it requires for you to be stopped, and in front of a mirror, and possibly, with some sort of degree in lipstick application technology. So, while in line at the toll plaza, I pull out the tube and put it on, as carefully as possible. I mean, I'm not an expert, and I could tell I messed up a little at the top because my lips no longer had that little dip at the top center (what is that called?), but overall, it looked pretty good. And my lips were red!!! Really, really, red. I thought it looked fantastic. I handed my $4 over to the toll dude, smiled at him perhaps a little more than usual, and drove into Marin Co. knowing that I was sluttastically gorgeous.

And everything was going fine--I had a little spring in my step all that morning. I had an early morning student, and after meeting with her, went to the bathroom, and that's when I realized that my lips were no longer red. They were more like magenta. I kind of looked like one of those old women at the nursing home who is left to her own devices perhaps a bit more than she should be, and keeps layering on that one tube of Estee Lauder lipstick she bought in in 1984. Yes, that was me. The magenta was not cool. And not slutty.

So here are my theories: 1) Cover Girl knows that I am a pretender to the Devereaux throne, and feels that I can't handle red, so they downgraded me to magenta for my own good, 2) I'm one of the 3% of people who look like ass in this stuff or 3) I just really don't understand this lipstick thing. Perhaps if I had spent more time in applying it? I'm not sure. I mean, the product is actually nice--it's creamy, and has a nice shine to it, and the little silver tube is cute enough. But the color is just not for me. I think I'll try it a couple more times, and if it still doesn't work, well, there goes my hopes and dreams for sluttiness.

Oh well. I guess there is a place out there for bookish looking SAT tutors who aspire to red lips and back seam hose. I'm still holding on to the dream though!