“Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels.”
-Faith Whittlesey
Ew.
Thank goodness we’ve moved into colder weather, where my work wardrobe can do me some good! However, it has been brought to my attention that looking nice at work can have some unforeseen consequences. Apart from the expanding waistline (that comes from less exercise)…wearing some sort of heel everyday has apparently given my calves such a workout that they are getting bigger. To the point that my nice boots are snug!
“A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. I think I’m feeling a little fullness!”
-Absolutely Fabulous
Nothing reminds you that you haven’t been to a gym in nearly three months like going to a seamstress to get the new trousers you bought mere weeks ago tailored to meet your exacting petite standards…only to find that you maybe aren’t as petite as could be desired, girth-wise.
You'd rethink your plan too!
“What do you need?” she growled.
I put on a bright smile and help up three pairs of trousers. “Just some hemming.” The glare intensified so I actually stuttered, “Unless you’re booked, I could try someplace else-”
“When you need by?” came the rumbling demand.
“Oh, whenever you get done with them,” I said meekly while my alter ego Small Dog looked down from on high and howled in embarrassment for my lack of spine.
“Not ’til mid October!” she snarled.
“Ok,” I smiled, heart wilting at the thought of my lunch break wasted, and turned towards the door when she waved a hand towards the changing room.
“No! In there! Put them on!”
I was going to say that I had already measured and knew that I just needed two inches off…but I thought better of it and obediently trudged into the room to strip.
It was then that I noticed that the trousers seemed a bit tight, but ever the (cautious) optimist, I chalked it up to bad lighting. Then I fastened the first pair around myself, looked at my reflection, and blanched.
Now, to explain. I’m short (duh!) but I also have no waist. Well I do, but there’s only an inch and a half between my ribs and my pelvis, as if someone took me by the feet and head and scrunched. Therefore I’ve got the same organs, skin, and…er…other bits that normal women have but all compressed and with no where exactly to go but…out. Diet and exercise keeps everything in place, but as I said before I haven’t been a gym bunny for some months now.
And friends, out everything has come.
Having tumbled down a well of despair (actually, having formulated a ruthless plan of attack incorporating carrot sticks and dragging a hapless Venice along to the gym with me as a workout buddy) I stepped back out to face the dragonish woman crouched menacingly on her stool by the unforgiving three-way mirror.
Small Dog befriends who she must!
“Where are you from?” she growled, trying to make small talk while she thumped around her shop for measuring tape and pins.
“Here for the last few years. My family is in England.”
The dour look started to slide off her face as she happily declared she was from Ukraine. I gulped and nodded as she whipped the tape around me in twenty directions. But the day was saved when she measured me head to toe.
“Just under five feet! You are same height as my daughters!”
From then on we were pals.
Now to reacquaint myself with the gym, because I don’t think I can go through this ordeal again to have anything taken out!
“You need to get up.”
“No!”
“Yes. You need to make money to support your rock’n’roll lifestyle.”
“I don’t have a rock’n’roll lifestyle!”
-J. and C.
We have a trip to England to pay for, school is starting and with it the flood of ridiculously expensive books to be bought, and food must be paid for I suppose. But fall is coming and that means so are fall lines! Venice doesn’t help by calling me at work to tell me that Express is having a sale on their work shirts (two for the price of one! That’s an investment, right?), and neither does my beloved Shabby Apple by debuting new fabulous dresses and accessories! My Lust List expands exponentially, rather than relative to my wallet (lovely thing though it is) and the only thing that keeps me safe is an iron will combined with absolute horror towards credit card debt commercials! I therefore bring you:
Small Dog’s List of Things She Wants But Cannot Have
Want want want... Paris dress by Stop Staring The Greta Garbo dress by Stop Staring for Shabby Apple. Drool...
The Kenya dress by Shabby Apple
Share my umbrella headband by Shabby Apple.
And in the category of accessories, considering that I’m living in a fantasy land, I’m also rather smitten with this little item (above headband). More bohemian than my normal tastes, but I want it just the same. Oh, come on. Like you’ve never wanted something you couldn’t have?
“My doctor grabbed me by the wallet and said, ‘Cough!'”
-Henry Youngman
My Alma Mater does not have a Spring Break, but while I worked at the International Students’ Office as an undergrad, I found a way to circumvent this. Our director would round us up every spring saying, “It’s, ahem, very important that you realize how difficult it can be for the students coming to our university to get in and out of the country” [Item: nearly every girl who worked there was an international, and every girl who worked had been out of the U.S. multiple times in her life] “and so we’re going to give you a little tutorial.” And thus we were annually whisked off to Mexico!
This trip had to include a trip to an embassy/consulate to make it right and proper with the university, but after that we could do just what we…actually whatever Dr. F. wanted. But as this always meant a trip to the beach, open air markets, and the good doctor’s favorite restaurant (which highlighted a mariachi band with what appeared to us to be excruciatingly tight pants…but that never seemed to diminish the musicians’ enthusiasm for dancing up to our tables, looking like their gut/bum/whatever were about to burst free any second), we were happy to go along for the ride.
A couple of years ago, we were down in Sonora in Hermosillo and going through an open air market selling all things cheap and designer knock off. I was on the prowl for a new wallet as my old was a shabby wreck and where better to get an abominably fake looking wallet than Mexico?
Won't you take me home?
I’d all but used up our allotted hour and was trying to seem as if I did not hear Dr. F. calling while I frantically searched case after case of goods. Finally, at the very instant I was turning around to trot after my friends in defeat, I saw it. Laying in the case was a so-not-Coach-but-maybe-from-far-away-it-would-fool-somebody brown wallet that needed me as much as I needed it.
“How much?” I enquired in broken Spanish.
“Five-fifty,” the woman answered in accented, but much superior to my sad attempt at her language, tones.
“Done,” I said. I probably could have talked her way down, but Dr. F. was motioning sternly so there was nothing to be done.
I stuck my hand into shirt and snatched my money from under my bra strap (where else was I supposed to carry it?!) and plopped my pesos down on the table in front of her.
Something about my humor/pathos amused her because she burst into laughter (which had a You Poor Thing! undertone to it) and said, “You can have it for just five.” Gracias!
My wallet had finally outlived its usefulness and the inside was starting to come apart, so the other day I traded it in for this sassy red, ultra thin clutch. But I felt bad tossing my old one and the entire day whenever I caught sight of it in the bin my first thought was that I’d made some horrible mistake (like tossing our marriage certificate again…still think J. did it), and even now I go searching frantically through my bag for it until I recall it’s been replaced.
“Naked people have little or no influence in society.”
-Mark Twain
Women of the world, raise your voices in the age old cry with me, “I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR!”
And, melodramatic as it may sound, I genuinely mean it! From the moment I got engaged, my so-called frivolous spending (Frivolous: as if looking good isn’t important. Did none of you endure high school? I spent mine more or less a tragic mess) was sharply curtailed. Money was put towards a new apartment with a significant raise in rent, utilities had to be set up (which generally involved some sort of fee in varying degrees of heftiness), and I had to start putting down payments on everything. My parents paid for the reception which was gorgeous (pictures may or may not be forthcoming, the photographer we used for it did a terrible job. And I’m not saying that facetiously, ask Venice. Bad), but I paid for my gown myself, plus shoes, veil, jewelry, hair, salon time for my bridesmaids and mom, bridesmaids presents, plus extra invitations when we discovered we didn’t have enough. All that means much less money to spend on food, frolic, and fashion than a single girl might be used to.
Which leads me to my current predicament: this has been the first summer I’ve worked a legitimate post-university job. I spent my first two university summers working in Belgium (significantly cooler than the western U.S. desert I’m currently sweltering in) and the next two either taking classes (and therefore in jean and tee shirts) or travelling/visiting my family in England. My student jobs on campus all required me to dress up for work so my wardrobe had a couple pairs of nice trousers, pencil skirts, and nice shirts…all appropriate to an autumn and winter climate. I also have a fair amount of jeans and teeshirts, which I can only wear on weekends now. I have a new reason to long for my student days!
And so, now the many lovely cashmere sweaters I’ve amassed are no good. The carefully-tended-to-make-them-last classic wool trousers are worthless in 90-100 degree weather. Even long sleeves shirts are a heat-exhaustion risk for me because I like my weather much cooler, with more clouds in the sky, and a decent wind blowing, and not even 4+ years in this part of the world has cured me of that. My boots, scarves, hats, dark tights, and coats, fabulous as they are, are simply useless to me until September!
Women seem to be slightly more at the whim of the vicissitudes of fashion than men. It may just be me, but I’ve observed that our clothing seems to be made of flimsier stuff, which means that we either need to A) replace it often as it wears out, which costs us more, or B) have a large enough wardrobe to begin with so that we can rotate clothing so no one player gets too much time in the field. This also requires not only money, but time, and planning! And, even though I’m getting better, putting outfits together is not a skill that comes effortlessly to me. My fabulous and talented friend Janssen over at Everyday Reading has an equally fabulous and talented sister who spent a couple of months showing her daily outfits on her blog, sadly she’s not doing it anymore because I got some really good ideas from it (along with bouts of mind mangling jealousy). And this girl occasionally makes lots of her own amazing clothing! Oh mother, how do I now regret those basic sewing lessons I scorned in my youth!
Of course it’s currently mid-July, so summer won’t be lasting much longer, so I should probably suck it up and just continue to rotate my two pairs of lightweight trousers for another month and a half. We’re now starving newlyweds, trying to save enough to get to England to see my family for Christmas. But…but…
“Remember that always dressing in understated good taste is the same as playing dead.”
-Susan Catherine
This is a momentous week, my friends, and even before I tell you why I can feel the judgement emanating from your eyeballs as you read this. The answer is simple, it’s my own little Fashion Week in Small Dog Syndrome Land: Oscars last night and America’s Next Top Model starts this Wednesday. See? I feel it already.
Growing up I wasn’t exactly a tomboy so much as I never learned how to be a girl. In middle school Peregrine tried vainly to force me into blow drying my hair regularly, then I lived on Guam during high school where hair product and makeup would have come to a sticky and unattractive end anyway so no one bothered, and THEN I moved to a university where lots of the girls tend to have hair and makeup that would rival any beauty queens in both height and thickness respectively. But slowly and surely I gleaned the necessary skills to keep from looking like a gorgon OR a Blondezilla and now I (think I) have my hair and face under control.
However, even when I was myself hopeless, I have always loved fashion! I have always liked it when people find a way to make practical things interesting and beautiful, Fancy food, lingerie, fun architecture, even colored post-it notes are great, anything that does a job but looks good doing it is worth the time and money. And clothes? They keep you from being naked but they also show your personal taste, demonstrate solidarity with groups or complete independence, convey position…they just talk and tell stories. And they’re such fun! So obviously watching the Oscars is like being a kid in a couture candy store!
My thoughts on the night’s gowns? Read on, let me know what you think:
So close! I LOVE me a red dress, but the carpet matching hurts.
So close again! If only you'd worn your Prada dress instead of your Prada sheets!
– I really wanted to like Amy Adams’ dress, Carlina Herrera, in another venue I probably would have but she looked like she was emerging from the red carpet and so I’m going to have to regretfully say no. Her Fred Leighton necklace though? To DIE for!
– Jessica Biel’s dress wasn’t entirely off, Prada is always stunning and I do like structured bodices, but this one hid too much of her fabulous form. The color and the fabric are beautiful, but she looks a bit too much like she just rolled out of bed. And not in the good way.
Two thumbs way, way down. Beyonce, this smacks of your mother's designing...
Taraji, too elegant to be shunned.
– Beyonce. Beyonce, Beyonce, Beyonce…you coined the phrase “bootylicious,” why must you encase yourself in a black and gold monstrosity? The bodice cut would have even worked if you didn’t have the weird graphic, but I absolutely and forever will hate fish-tail dresses.
– Taraji Henson’sRoberto Cavalli gown was so elegant! It was almost too bridey for me, but when I tried to think of another color it would have been equally stunning in I couldn’t so I’m going to have to let this one slide. Ethereal and graceful. The hair was a bit boring but still equisitely ladylike, and I’m going to say redeemed by the pop of her red bag. Nice sparklers around the neck too.
Gorgeous, but still too bridey!The dreaded fish-tail strikes again (see Beyonce above). It just doesn't work, please let it go.
–Penelope Cruz’sPierre Balmain gown was lovely in its own way, but again with the bridal thing? Her’s even has the big skirt and sweetheart neckline. Pretty dress, but I didn’t like it for the Oscars.
–Melissa George. Dolce and Gabanna let her wear their stuff? What were you thinking?! That is all.
Not all the pundits agree, but I thought she looked great. Classic black always works, and goodness knows I love my emeralds!Evan wins for the evening, in my book at least. Favorite look of the night!
– I love Angelina Jolie (post Billy Bob Thorton) and I think that she always looks elegant. Maybe her style isn’t as flashy and provocative as some people would like, but I think her choices tend to be pretty good. There was a forgettable Armani Atlier once and a mumu-esque mistake for her Changeling premier, but by and large I think her minimalistic style really works. She wore an Elie Saab in a classic black. Hate away stylists everywhere, I liked it!
– My favorite look of the night was Evan Rachel Woods in another Elie Saab. Also understated, but beautiful lines, gorgeous detail work on the bodice, and suited her peaches-and-cream complexion perfectly. Subdued but fabulous earrings, and dark nails (love ’em!).
I am deeply in lust with these sparklies. My most coveted item of the night.
Since I’m still poor I have to live vicariously through the TV. Margot and I met up with Angel at her house to watch the Oscars, make last minute bets about which movies/people would win, and (for me at least) drool over the dresses. Unfortunately I think the Disney Princess Leauge gowns were bad and there were way too many bridal looking gowns (No, I’m not being selfish and self-centered, I just don’t want to see brides on the red carpet. Mine isn’t even white, back off!)
Lest we forget, the accessories were lovely: Taraji Henson’s bag and Amy Adam’s necklace being in the top three, but I love emeralds. Love them. My engagement ring attests to that. Ergo I must must must find a way to steal Angelina Jolie’s Lorraine Schwartz earrings.
Finally, the WORST looks of the night? Miley Cyrusin Zuhair Murad. Scarlett O’Hara managed to make drapes look good, what’s your excuse? And Sophia Loren? Goodness knows we love you but WTF?!
GAH!
What is this? Fish scales meets dirty south? Fire whoever told her to wear this, stat!
Somewhere in our military storage (the location of which I can roughly narrow down to “somewhere on one of three continents”) there is a photo album. In this photo album is a picture, that my parents find hilarious, of me as an infant dressed in a once-white onesie and absolutely covered in spaghetti and sauce, and completely thrilled about the situation. Though I can’t remember the incident it seems to have kicked off a lifetime curse of being messy/klutzy/generally imparied when it comes to cleanliness, pasta sauce, and white shirts.
Eating luch at J.’s I was attacked by a tortellini shell which took an enthusiastic dive off my fork and straight down my best white shirt. Luckily we have a bunch of (horrifically ugly) department shirts in our supply room so I found the smallest one I could and made the switch…and then doubled over laughing in the closet. I dashed to Susie’s office to show off the marvelous sight of this “small” shirt ending somewhere around my knees, the sleeves of which extended long over my finger tips with armholes that take up half of my rib cage.
I had to tuck what feels like a couple yards of fabric into my trousers, which needless to says feels unbecomingly bulky, and roll the sleeves up three times to get them to just below my elbows. I look like I’m having an illicit affair with a police dispatcher and had to sneak out in his shirt this morning!
My wallet had finally outlived its usefulness and the inside was starting to come apart, so the other day I traded it in for this sassy red, ultra thin clutch. But I felt bad tossing my old one and the entire day whenever I caught sight of it in the bin my first thought was that I’d made some horrible mistake (like 
And, melodramatic as it may sound, I genuinely mean it! From the moment I got engaged, my so-called frivolous spending (Frivolous: as if looking good isn’t important. Did none of you endure high school? I spent mine more or less a tragic mess) was sharply curtailed. Money was put towards a new apartment with a significant raise in rent, utilities had to be set up (which generally involved some sort of fee in varying degrees of heftiness), and I had to start putting down payments on everything. My parents paid for the reception which was gorgeous (pictures may or may not be forthcoming, the photographer we used for it did a terrible job. And I’m not saying that facetiously, ask Venice. Bad), but I paid for my gown myself, plus shoes, veil, jewelry, hair, salon time for my bridesmaids and mom, bridesmaids presents, plus extra invitations when we discovered we didn’t have enough. All that means much less money to spend on food, frolic, and fashion than a single girl might be used to.
Women seem to be slightly more at the whim of the vicissitudes of fashion than men. It may just be me, but I’ve observed that our clothing seems to be made of flimsier stuff, which means that we either need to A) replace it often as it wears out, which costs us more, or B) have a large enough wardrobe to begin with so that we can rotate clothing so no one player gets too much time in the field. This also requires not only money, but time, and planning! And, even though I’m getting better, putting outfits together is not a skill that comes effortlessly to me. My fabulous and talented friend 
Small Dog Syndrome 