Wednesday, October 7, 2009
granny fashion smackdown
That's a hideous simulacrum for my outfit today. I mean, I don't have huge duck feet, nor is my right hand cut off at the wrist. Because if it was, I would have a majorly kickass hook. And this blog would be called "unruly hookhand".
But it's the best I can do, playing image-stealing paper dolls with Photoshop.
It reminds me of this Fashion Plate toy I had as a child. I was never a stylish child, but it seemed outdated even then.
Thank you, Google, for bringing such joys back into my life... for me to ridicule.
Anyway, I have recently been putting more thought into my wardrobe and style. I'm wearing skirts more, layering with decorative belts or shrugs. I even have plans to fiddle with scarves, once the temperature is regularly below 60 degrees. I'm trying to rise above my lifelong uniform of jeans + t-shirt that I bought on sale.
But my grandmother, see, she hasn't seen me in a month, because she's 1000 years old and barely has enough blood, anyway, and I didn't want to infect her with my children's various plagues. So when she saw me today, she asked me:
Honey, did you just come from a party? Or a funeral? Or a teacher conference?
Like it had to be one of those three for me to wear a skirt.
She knows me pretty well, actually.
She's just the most Southern, polite, sweet old lady. And she makes the best chocolate pie and potato soup and cornbread and creamed corn and black-eyed peas and green beans and macaroni and cheese and I think I need to take a break and go to the kitchen for a while before I embarrass myself.
Anyway, she's polite and sweet and old, but she has this amazing way of cutting to the chase and laying the truth out there.
For example, to the last family reunion I was able to attend, I wore a black shirt that was in style at the time, a sort of puffy blouse. I thought it looked pretty cool, and it only cost me $3 on the sale rack at Old Navy, and it covered my post-partum-trying-to-get-pregnant-again tummy. But what did grandma say?
Honey, why you wearin' a hatchin' jacket?
A what, Mimi?
A hatchin' jacket. It's what we called it, back in my day, when you were trying to hide that you were expecting. Or getting fat.
Thaaaaaanks. I'm just gonna put down this plate of fried chicken and quietly vomit now.
Or what about that time I came to visit with my newborn baby in the middle of winter wearing a cozy henley shirt?
Honey, do I need to buy you a coat to cover up those pajammers? People are gonna think your grandmother's too poor to buy you a coat. I'm buying you a coat. Here's twenty dollars. Go to Sears and buy you a coat. And some new pajammers.
And that shirt quickly became a pajama shirt. And I did actually buy a pretty cute coat with that $20. I definitely do not look a gift grandmother in the mouth. Or a grandmother gift. Except that check for $10 that she wrote to Mrs. ChildhoodNickname MaidenName, which I was unable to cash. Thanks a lot, Bank of America!
So what's the lesson today, kids?
If you want the truth about your style, talk to my Mimi.
Even if she hurts your feelings, it's impossible to cry while eating her pie. Unless it's tears of joy.