Altogether Now

I bring forth examples of fashion no-nos:

A) There was a girl in shul, freshly engaged. I don't think she enjoyed dressing up much. She was wearing a suit that I can still recall clearly in my mind's eye; magnificently structured pink wool; a drop-waisted skirt that fell into pleats; neat bows interlaced at the waist. 

To this breathtaking bright suit she wore . . . serviceable black suede loafers. 

B) A teenager sat next to me during davening. Her skirt was of detailed craftsmanship; made from heavy black evening-ish fabric, it was a certainly charming garment, reeking of quality. 

But the top was a cheap, unstructured, mesh tunic-something with a layering tee beneath; the shoes, inelegant beige driving mocs.

C) In the dead of winter, another female proudly enters wearing a dainty thin purple cotton blouse. And no, I never saw her wear it again, not even in summer.  

Time out. 

When it comes to coordinating, a major factor is tone.

Such as: 

1) dressy vs. casual

2) dressy vs. evening 

3) seasonal fabric weights

To clarify:

A) That gal (or her mother) should have purchased a pair of nude heels. 

B) The skirt was perfect for evening wear, but not the rest. Either it should have been kept for a wedding, or to wear it to shul, she should have purchased a ruffly blouse, which can look very polished, along with a ballet flat of any color. 

C) It is 30 degrees outside; now is not the time for frail cotton. Now one wears cuddly sweaters.  

When it comes to an ensemble, thought must be put into every choice, be it in shoes or tops or skirts or accessories, which can make it a "Two thumbs up!" or a "What was she thinking!?!" 

You Make Me Sick

After a surprisingly unpleasant early Sunday date, I arrived home in a state of weakness. I figured it was psychosomatic as I shivered within my sweatshirt and under the covers despite the balmy June breeze flowing through the windows. Nausea wracked my stomach. I figured that was a reaction to the many awkward moments of earlier that day. 

I awoke in the night soaked in sweat, even though the air was chilly. In the morning my pajama top clammily clung to me; I shuddered as I crawled out from beneath the sheets. All this for a bad date? I wondered. 

My stomach was no more settled as my breakfast threatened to reappear. My mouth tingled as though blistered. I flung myself back into bed and called in sick. 

"Ah," my family said knowingly, figuring it was due to the end of my current short-lived romance. I spent the day feebly fending off phone calls from those trying to give me love advice while I tried to watch Law & Order: Criminal Intent reruns. 

But as the day progressed, my strength came back. The nausea subsided. The chills dissipated. 

Wait a sec, I realized, I actually had a fever!

Or did he spike my drink?    

Oily Hair is Happy Hair

In the humid summertime, I iron my hair for Shabbos to ensure no frizz (maybe just less frizz). 

Usually, by Sunday, my hair looks great—enough oils have redistributed, making my locks shine with health and manageability. However, right after ironing . . . not so much. Even with leave-in conditioner and anti-frizz serum, the ends of my hair are somewhat stiff and crispy. 

Sephora once gave me sample sizes of Josie Maran's Argan Oil. In the pursuit of experimentation, I dribbled a drop or two onto my palms, rubbed them together, then ran my hands through my hair, which thirstily drank up the offered nourishment. 

With literally the amount of a raindrop, my hair now had that shampoo-ad smoothness and "flip"-ability; instead of waiting for Sunday for my hair to look good, it looked great right off the bat.

There are many argan oil-based products for hair and body, as well as the 100% oil itself, available on Vitacost.

In the Science Section (of all places) there was a query as to why some hair types frizz in the humidity. The answer was that hair that is dry sucks up moisture from the air, which eventually leads to frizz. Meaning, the more moisturized hair is, the less it will frizz.

I've recently become aware (thank you, StepItUp) that many hair products have alcohol as the primary ingredient, which actually dries hair out instead of moisturizing it. That's why this 100% oil seems like a good bet.  

Aware Much?

Self-awareness is so hard to achieve. Like when people wax poetic about their divine qualities, but don't quite realize that they have been guilty of hypocrisy in more than one instance. 

"I am so nice. What is up with your hair?"

I thought of this as I read about runners, and their own cross to bear (so to speak). Running, while made glamorous by sneaker ads, doesn't look that pretty in real life. Those partaking of that grueling exercise may feel fabulous, but when they see photos of themselves in action they can't quite believe that energy translates as an image of an unfashionable dying buffalo. 

Sadly — horribly — the list of ways these photos can and almost always do go wrong is wide and deep: Muffin top. Earthquake quads. Wind in the shorts, making it look as if you’re wearing your derrière backward. Front wedgies. Let’s not even get started on facial expressions . . . 

My husband describes looking at his triathlon images as “soul destroying.” “I am their most willing customer, I am so ready to spend big,” he said of Brightroom, which charges $39.99 for four 5-by-7 prints, or $59.99 to download your entire photo gallery from a race. “But then you start clicking through the pictures, and the mortification just builds and builds. The camera pretty consistently fails to capture my own sense of speed. I feel like a gazelle and yet I look like a hippo.”   

Since I try to avoid strenuous exercise, I have not opened myself for that particular brand of torture. But that same premise is applicable in so many other cases. 

I try to be self-aware. But I, too, have failed, as I realize the very thing I mocked I do. 

Tolerance can help; if one permits their vision to be blurred when it comes to others' vices, than one will not be held accountable for such harsh judgement. Then there is always silence; shutting up about one's own virtues. 

That, however, is not permissible in the dating scene; one is pushed and shoved into crowing their own achievements to make oneself more sellable. Since I refuse to view the sacred alliance of marriage as being based on a market economy (the premise of bridal price and dowries has been defunct for quite some time) then I shall stay quiet for as long as possible about my assets.

Walkin' Out With My Baby (Not Exactly Mine . . .)

I have mentioned beforehand that I am a professional aunt, so whatever research I have made regarding the kiddie world I feel compelled to share. 

There is a carriage that I really, really, like; and between the many babies, b"H, I have pushed quite a few over the past decade. 

In terms of getting your money's worth, my vote is for the Baby Jogger City Mini line. 

1) The canopy. No children that I know like to have the sun shining in their faces, and other awnings just don't cut it. This bad boy comes all the way down, keeping your little one cool and protected from the elements.

2) The wheels don't have to be inflated. I have pushed carriages that have wheels that have to be constantly maintained, and when they are full the carriage pushes like a dream, and when they are low it is absolutely impossible to navigate. I'd rather not start. 

3) Folding it is an absolute breeze—simply pick up the cord lying across the seat. Now it's folded. I'm not bothering with a carriage that needs the wheels removed are some other stupidity. As a mother put it, "With the other carriages out there, you need a PhD!"

4) For all these great features, the price is pretty reasonable. For how much a baby carriage is used, and all its convenient features, it's definitely a good deal. 

5) The double carriage has individual awnings, instead of a communal one, meaning each child's sunny preferences can be accommodated. 

6) While this shouldn't count as a factor, I love the colors they are available in. Red, green, blue, purple, orange—kids are supposed to be a convenient excuse for indulging in loud hues. I would want to be able to to take full advantage. 

For the other mommas (or aunts) out there: What carriage gets your vote?

It's Got No Feelings to Hurt

"Laddie, dinna ye think ye'd better visit our Shrieking Tree?" she asked with a smile. It was an ancient clan custom in the old country that somewhere near the dwelling of the oldest woman of the laird's family would be the Shrieking Tree.

When Ian was young, Granny Dunross was the oldest, and her cottage was in a glade in the hills behind Kilmarnock in Ayrshire where the Struan lands were. The tree was a great oak.

It was the tree you went out to when the deevil—as old Granny Dunross called it—when the deevil was with you, and alone, you shrieked whatever curses you liked.

" . . . and then, lassie," the lovely old woman had told her the first night, " . . . and then, lassie, there would be peace in the home and never a body has need to really curse a husband or wife or lover or child. Aye, just a wee tree, and the tree can bear all the curse words that the deevil himself wanted . . ." 

—Noble House by James Clavell

The granny here is giving advice to the young woman who has just married her grandson. For the sake of her marriage, Granny tells her she must always have a Shrieking Tree selected wherever she is; her grandson has the family fiery temper. 

"Remember, lassie," Granny Dunross had said to hear privately the day they left, "if ye want to keep your marriage sweet, make sure this Dunross always has a Shrieking Tree nearby. Dinna be afeared. Pick one, always pick one, wherever you go. This Dunross needs a Shrieking Tree close by though he'll never admit it and will never use it but rarely . . ." 

So wherever they had gone they had had one. Penelope had insisted. Once, in Chungking, where Dunross had been sent to be an Allied liaison officer after he was well again, she had made a bamboo their Shrieking Tree. Here in Hong Kong it was a huge jacaranda that dominated the whole garden. "Don't you think you should pay her a wee visit?" The tree was always a her for him and a him for her. Everyone should have a Shrieking Tree, Penelope thought. Everyone.   

I certainly should allot some poor tree to verbally abuse. Not because I let things out; I hold them in. Genetically, I tend to internalize aggravations, allowing it to wreak havoc on my digestion and blood pressure. While the benefits of catharsis is still under debate in the psychology field, one should have a place, whether it be internal or external, to bring oneself back into control.

One of the biggest mistakes one can do in life is to allow angry emotions to spillover onto those who are innocent of wrongdoing. A bad day in the office can have a man bellowing at his wife, who in turn takes it out on the children. 

It's an injustice. 

Therefore, everyone has to become maivens on themselves. If one is angry, one is annoyed, one is ready to blow, stay quiet. Go for a walk. Think about what the price of "honesty" will be.  

In the penultimate scene from Pygmalion (Act V), Henry attempts to smooth-talk Eliza into coming back. She retorts that he has never cared for anyone, he has absolutely no consideration for another soul, what should she come back for? 

HIGGINS. [arrogant] I can do without anybody. I have my own soul: my own spark of divine fire. But [with sudden humility] I shall miss you, Eliza. [He sits down near her on the ottoman]. I have learnt something from your idiotic notions: I confess that humbly and gratefully. And I have grown accustomed to your voice and appearance. I like them, rather.

LIZA. Well, you have both of them on your gramophone and in your book of photographs. When you feel lonely without me, you can turn the machine on. It's got no feelings to hurt.

Short End of the Stick

As is quite obvious, I likee my sci-fi. Futuristic sci-fi movies has mankind soaring through space, accelerating the healing process, converting matter into food. 

But one thing remains the same: women give birth while shrieking in agony.

Seriously? We have epidurals now; according to sci-fi writers, in a couple hundred years, women will give birth in floating hospitals by a hologram doctor and she will still be in agonizing pain?

Laaaaaaame. 

Examples:

1) J.J. Abrams re-do of Star Trek. Great movie. Alternate time-line bit—brilliant. Got Leonard Nemoy, perfect. 

Yet, while the ship's computer can tell if a crew member was killed on the Romulan ship because his vitals blipped, James. T. Kirk's mother is sobbing and gasping as she gives birth the old fashioned way. It's the frickin' FUTURE, people! The alien doctor should be able to casually inject something that either safely postpones the birth until back on Earth or James enters this world without ripping his mother to shreds.

2) Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith. The prequels should never have been done. My proof being, Amidala's twins are being delivered by ROBOTS! And the same weeping and screeching as though she's a peasant woman in the Middle Ages! C'mon! (Never mind how Amidala simply dies because "her heart is broken." At least have her killed by a blaster. Or by the Sith, at the edge of a lightsaber. But to casually die since she doesn't feel like living? [blows raspberry]).

Luke's hand gets SLICED OFF and he simply gets a new one. Giving birth should be a cakewalk.

3) Star Trek: The Next Generation, episode Disaster. Keiko O'Brien gives birth with the rudimentary cursing, sweating, and bellowing. Worf, her unwilling midwife, is armed with enough medical paraphernalia to bring down a horse. But no, she has her baby the boringly painful way.

She deserved better.

When will the nerds who wrote this stuff give women a break? Is it because the popular cheerleader in high school laughed when you asked her out? That's why all women must suffer, unable to earn cool ends but rather through the most typical thing of all, as babymakers?

Let us act out our death the noble way, with a blaster in hand. 

Yea-Sayer

I went on my first date at 19. Looking back, I sweat in gratitude that I did not have to make such a major decision then, naive and trusting as I was. 

I was superficial enough to believe that what matters between two people are their likes and dislikes on a petty level. I don't like sushi, I love cabbage, I don't get football, I like reading. 

When on a date way back when, I would have felt an odd need to agree over trivialities, or frantically defend my preferences. "It's not like I hate sushi, I think sushi is very decent, but we just don't see eye to eye, I'm not into raw fish and unseasoned rice and bland seaweed, not that I have anything against raw fish and unseasoned rice and bland seaweed—why am I sweating so much? Look, you can leave the sushi with me, I won't hurt it, I promise!"

Now on a date I blithely scorn the sushi and the football. Because if I am going to marry someone, it's not going to be about dinner or sports.

A strong sense of self is necessary to function in life, in a time when self-awareness is cast aside for trend-following. I have read books by Jewish publishers that claim that when it comes to marriage, the younger, the better, so that qualities have time to meld and grow together. That may work for some, but personal acknowledgement of one's own needs and wants can work to their advantage as well. 

Noelle Howey wrote a Modern Love tale, how she was dating a man who had no opinions about anything, despite his high IQ. He would wait for her viewpoint, then heartily concur. It soon became a deal breaker: She needed a man with opinions, and willing to stand by them. 

His transformation was so swift that she was taken aback when he would disagree. 

I wasn’t sure what to think. How could a person change so dramatically in such a short time? As much as I loved this bolder version of Chris, I worried I had inadvertently played Pygmalion with him. Everyone knows you can’t change your partner, and shouldn’t even try; that’s an axiom for a reason.

And I knew from experience that you can’t permanently contort yourself to please someone else . . . If I had somehow forced Chris into becoming the person I’d wanted to be with — as opposed to the person he truly was — we wouldn’t last.

She eventually discovered that his reasons for keeping acquiescent was due to his parents' loud and frequent arguments. Since they wouldn't even bother to hear him, he never felt a need to say anything. 

“It’s different with you,” he said. “I can be myself.”

Jessica Biel was featured in August's InStyle. The interview questions were based on reader submissions. 

Do you think when you're with someone for a long time you adopt some of their traits and vice versa? If so, what have you and Justin picked up from each other? — Jamie Jovel, Rohnert Park, CA.

In my earlier experiences with relationships, I was really vulnerable to somebody else's personality, hobbies, and way of life. But as I've gotten older, I've become proud of the traits that make me who I am. Maintaining my individuality is really important to me because otherwise I can easily slip into someone else's life. So I'm glad I'm getting better at it. It's a process, but it's getting simpler.  

There are so many books and films about uptight soccer moms who suddenly realize how they "lost themselves," then "need" to abandon their families to "rediscover who they are." Being a wife and a mother and a daughter and a sister is not an identity; all of us play many roles, yet remain something else entirely. There is no need to lose oneself in the process. It is not fair, not only to oneself, but to one's family. 

So no misrepresentation when on a date.  

"Goodness, I don't understand football at all. I abhor such violence for the sake of entertainment. No sushi for me, thank you, but could you pass the coleslaw?"    

Who Could Ask for Anything More?

An American in Paris is not my favorite musical—it's just that it has Leslie Caron and Gene Kelly, my favorite performers in the musical industry. The music is beautiful (George Gershwin, consistently singable), the dancing divine (there is a lot of ballet in there), but I don't like the "love at first sight" premise. I just consider that lazy writing.

Anywho, the colors jump from the screen in a fantasy-like kaleidoscope, the dancers leap and twirl, and the tunes just hypnotize. 

Gene is a starving American artist in Paris, Leslie is affianced to the biggest singing sensation in the country who happened to risk his life to keep her safe during the war. Georges Guétary is so dashing and considerate I actually root for him the whole time. I really don't see what Gene has to offer, and I spend my movie time cursing Leslie's character for being so easily distracted. 

Sparkle on, Leslie. Eyes a'twinkle, Gene. As for you, George, you were the best of them all. Oscar is the funniest. 

There are all sorts of embedding restrictions against inserting some of my favorites scenes, like "I Got Rhythm," and the opening scene when Gene transforms the boring morning routine into poetry in motion. 

The New RSVP

Blah, cell phones. Hate them. Whenever something catastrophic happens, it's never any use, and the people I try to avoid find me. Feh. 

While texting has for the most part has eliminated loud public phone conversations, there is also the downside that sometimes the texted word is considered less obnoxious than when being voiced. 

The other day I planned to meet up with a friend, with texts flying back and forth rescheduling the time. Ten minutes before the meetup, I gingerly head for the elevator. 

Chime. 

"Cant make it nxt thurs?" 

Unsurprised, but annoyed that I will now have to eat out lunch instead of my home brew of cleansing bean soup, I grumpily head out for the least greasiest place I can think of, which is still too greasy.

Why did she bother to begin with? I could have saved both of us all that aggravation. If the day begins messily, it is not likely to improve; just cancel already. 

Texting and instant messaging make it easier to navigate our social lives, but they are also turning us into ill-mannered flakes. Not long ago, the only way to break a social engagement, outside of blowing off someone completely, was to do it in person or on the phone. An effusive apology was expected, or at least the appearance of contrition.

But now, when our fingers tap our way out of social obligations, the barriers to canceling have been lowered. Not feeling up for going out? Have better plans? Just type a note on the fly (“Sorry can’t make it tonight”) and hit send.

And don’t worry about giving advance notice. The later, the better. After all, bailing on dinner via text message doesn’t feel as disrespectful as standing up someone, or as embarrassing.

The beauty of the vague text is that it doesn't invite comment. After all, it could be something as important as the security of the free world why the other party doesn't show. But it's encouraging others to view others' time as cheap, when a little foresight and planning could have spared inconvenience.

As for dating? Guys will call to schedule the date, but then usually text to reschedule. Coincidence? I doubt it. Texting has become the conduit for bad news. It does have its perks, I do not deny, but it seems as time goes on I become more of a luddite.