My Mother the Muse

In the mid-1960s there was a horrifying moment on TV, a short-lived sitcom, “My Mother the Car,” starring an extremely young Jerry Van Dyke. The premise of the show was that Joe Sitcom’s deceased mother had been reincarnated as a talking 1928 Porter convertible automobile.

My mom would have never consented to reincarnation as a 40 year-old hoopdie – the automotive equivalent of an old lady wearing a faded flowered smock with strings hanging from the hem. She would have agreed to nothing less than a ’64 Ford Mustang convertible dipped in Cherries-In-The-Snow red.

She was a modern woman decked out in form fitting pantsuits, fluffy Motown wigs and short skirts. She didn’t seem out of place in the Pepsi Generation. To my preteen eyes she was the epitome of glamour, the essence of charm and excitement. She represented the best of Mademoiselle or Vogue, moving through life with class, grace and style.

She never left the house without lipstick, never left the house without draping on her style, her swing, her surefootedness. Quirky and independent, always noticed – never a wallflower. She was always ready, whole, when she left the house.

I look in the mirror and see her face, especially when I’m smiling and wearing red, red lipstick. I feel her wrapping me in timeless merino wool coats and colorful cashmere sweaters from the best department stores in 1960s D.C.: Garfinckel’s, Woodward & Lothrop, and Lansburgh’s.

Mom haunts me whenever I go shopping. Mom haunts me whenever I’m dressing for an event. Mom haunts me as I clean out my closets, scolding and warning me about bad taste, unfortunate style and lack of style. Her mischievous smile is in the sunbeam that shines on the pile of discarded baggy capri pants, summer skirts that make my butt look big, faded tie dye frocks and items in universally unflattering colors such as salmon and beige. Her light-hearted laugh echoes through my cedar closet as I recall her story of the church lady’s fur stole that was reminiscent of Toto or Benji.

My Mother the Muse inspired who I am today. My closets and my life are full because of her, although I most enjoyed wearing her Cherries-In-The-Snow lip print on my cheek – her seal of approval.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Aw-w-w Chucks!

My mom wouldn't let me wear Chuck Taylors when I was growing up--she thought they were ugly. She preferred Keds, so that's what I wore. They were cute, ladylike, and came in every color in the rainbow. Through the years I had pairs in navy, red, aqua, white and spring green, but my heart belonged to Chucks. It was like dating Steady Freddy but lusting after Randy Ricky.

Chucks are perenially cool--the shoes of basketball stars and rebels. On the street they were called "gang wars." I bought my first pair as an adult in the 1980s, and have kept at least one pair in my shoe collection at all times over the past 25 years. I have eight pair in rotation right now, including chocolate leather high tops and licorice black leather low tops for winter cool. Last summer, while shopping at Filene's Basement in DC, I found "superstar" Chucks--white canvas sprinkled with dozens of tiny silver stars--and added them to my collection.

I bought another pair last weekend. They are black canvas with tiny multi-colored loops scattered all over. Got them at Kohl's. I'm not a Kohl's shopper, but I was chasing a skirt that I saw in Vogue. Didn't find the skirt, but I found a pair of funky red high top Chucks in the men's shoe department.

So, why Chucks? I prefer a little sass with my casual wear. They look great with jeans and add a rocker's edge. I rarely wear gym shoes if I'm not at the gym. Why so many pairs? They're like Lays potato chips--I can't have just one!

When I was in Rome last year I was surprised to see that Chucks were everywhere--worn with very skinny jeans on young men and women. I'm sure that I'll see them on the streets of Paris when I'm there this summer. If you want to see them in action, check out old NBA footage or the film version of West Side Story.

Almost Famous

I was walking down Walnut Street this afternoon with no particular destination when I was stopped by a fabulous looking woman who said that I looked "amazing," and asked to interview me about my personal style. I was surprised and flattered and of course, agreed to the interview. Turns out she's Cynthia Gouw, the host and executive producer of Snapglow.tv on Philly.com.

She got me on a good look day. I felt great and it is the day before my birthday. The weather was scrumptious and I walking into town from the Cezanne and Beyond exhibit.

I was wearing Express skinny jeans which I had cuffed at the ankle, a black lacy MaxStudio short sleeved tunic with a black lace cami underneath, five year old black patent leather flats and black fishnet knee highs. My accessories of choice were oversized black sunglasses from Ann Taylor Loft and the luscious pebbled gray shoulder bag that I bought in Rome last year.

Ms. Gouw asked about the choices I made when I got dressed this morning, and here are my practical answers:

• I live in jeans whenever I'm not on the job because they are versatile and comfortable
• My jeans are cuffed because they are too long
  
• Flats mean I can walk farther faster
• Fishnet knee highs peeking out of the shoe funk up the look--give it an edge
• Large sunglasses offer more protection from UV rays
• The tunic is making its debut today after being purchased over a year ago
  

She asked permission to ask my age and I happily told her that I will be 55 tomorrow. I also told her mid-life women can still be sexy and stylish, and I'm out to prove it, but they've got to step away from shapeless sweatsuits, boxy sweaters, Mom jeans and gym shoes.

I only wish she had asked me about my lipstick! I was wearing Bobbi Brown's "Cassis," a rich rusty-red color that I admired on my gorgeous friend Jocie. The lipstick added polish to the look.

Ms. Gouw says that she will let me know when the piece is posted. Stay tuned!

Falling Into The Gap

Went to The Gap today to exchange a pair of roll waist yoga pants. The roll waist is hot this year, topping skirts, capris and pants. It's comfy and forgiving of a stromboli lunch. You can find inexpensive roll waist items at Lands' End, Target, Athleta (catalog and website), The Gap and countless other places.

But, I digress. I went to The Gap to exchange a pair of yoga pants. I hadn't been a fan of The Gap for years; every visit pulled me into an undertow of boring. Recently, though, I read about the anointing of the American designer Patrick Robinson as the last gasp savior for the chain. I read about his background, style sensibilities and vision, and his plan to put The Gap back into every fashionista's closet.

So, I watched and waited. Over the past year I occasionally wandered into the store to kill time and yawned as I wandered among the shelves of white shirts, salmon colored sweaters and racks of cropped khakis, straight leg khakis, khaki skirts, wide leg khakis and shamefully unsexy jeans. When would Mr. Robinson move his neighborhood a little closer?

I'm happy to say that he has arrived. Today I was knocked off my feet by baby blanket soft cafe au lait wrap sweaters with ruffled collars (also available in white or navy). Cotton knit little black dresses that are flattering to every figure and allow you to express your inner-Audrey. Summer weight jewel-colored t-shirts with cuffed sleeves, sherbet colored jeans that can be sneaked into the "no jeans" workplace. Stylish and comfortable cotton knits that are perfect for travel whether to the Jersey shore or to Paris. Gypsy-inspired skirts -- shorter, with subdued flounces. Trimmed down for today's body conscious woman.

These are jazzed up but not tricked out basics for secure adult women. Items that flatter and fit and have found their way into this fashionista's closet. Thanks, Patrick!

Closet Queen

I am a rock star, or at least that's what a section of my closet tells me. I am an unashamed and unapologetic fan of 1960s soul and rock music with a preference for driving beats, layers of screaming guitars and charismatic lead singers who seethe, seduce and strut. I love black rock, Brit rock, funk rock, thrash rock, brass rock and rock lullabies.

My inner Barbie is an icon like Tina, Janis or Chaka. She's the lead guitarist or percussion princess. The one who renders microphones impotent with one extended wail. I adore Nona Hendryx and the Graces -- Jones and Slick. I am Chrissie Hynde, Sandra St. Victor, or Joyce Kennedy (Mothers' Finest) whenever I pull on a form fitting black t-shirt emblazoned with a silk-screened 1970s era Harley or hand painted with the word "LOVE."

Last week I wore the vintage Banana Republic brown patent leather vest buttoned tight over a pair of low-slung chocolate corduroy jeans. Heavy silver belt buckle, ginger-colored urban cowboy boots with rhinestones at the ankle. I felt delicious and in perfect harmony all day.

Tomorrow I'll wear the olive suede blouse with hook and eye closures, floppy sleeves and wrist ties with a slim black skirt and fishnets and pretend that I'm a background singer on Dark Side of the Moon. Next week I'll rock the Burgundy suede tuxedo blouse and skinny jeans and daydream about opening my first set as headliner at the Tower Theater with a banshee wail. This summer I'll travel to Europe with the black lace pencil skirt and channel my inner Nancy Wilson.

Red Frye boots, a black velvet coat, funky black t-shirts, Chuck Taylors decorated with a constellation of silver stars, loads of inherited costume jewelry. I keep pulling these things out of the trunk and closets.

Guitar Hero anyone?