Missoni. A love story
Posting this as it was exactly thirty years ago. How far fashion (and I) have come!
Picture the fall of 1982. I was in 8th grade, in the midst of an awkward phase that lasted until my 28th birthday. My school picture features an unfortunate poodle perm and an expression of what I thought was ennui, but what looks now more like constipation.
Daily life in Nogales, Arizona was unbearable in the way only 12 year old girls could possibly understand. I was too young to be a proper moody teenager, too old for Barbie, and developed just enough that no clothing fit. Shopping was not just a chore, it was outright torture. My choices were either caftans (what every tween dreams of wearing to school!) or Sears Husky brand boy’s jeans and T-shirts. Remember, this was 1982…fashionable plus sizes are at least a decade away.
Life dragged on until I got the news of a lifetime: my Dad had landed a temporary assignment in…Miami! For six glorious months I didn’t have to attend the school I hated with the PE teacher that confused humiliation with motivation and Lawrence …who I had loved (in the way only 12 year old girls can love) since third grade but who just wouldn’t notice me. For six glorious months we would live in an apartment complex with…a pool!
Understandably, the fall of 1982 holds a special place in my heart. I had maybe 30 minutes of schoolwork every day that was mailed back to my teachers, so my Mom and I had a lot of free time. We dug into Miami with gusto, and I’m sure we did lots of cultural activities that certainly must have expanded my horizons. I’d tell you about them if I remembered a single one!
Well, there is one. Pre-Kardishians, THE place to shop in Miami was Bal Harbour on Collins Avenue. We certainly didn’t belong at Bal Harbour; so I am eternally grateful for a lesson my mom taught me by example: if you act like you belong, people will assume you belong. So we sauntered through Neiman Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue, browsing even though the super-super clearance racks were over our budget.
I’m sure the Missoni store in Bal Harbour was just a store, but to me it was a revelation. In my mind 30 years later, I see clouds parting and hear a choir at the entrance. Inside were these amazing garments in the signature zigzag pattern that were cut…one size! Basically, they were caftans, but in a Missoni print even a caftan was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. I remember trying one on, modeling it proudly, and imagining myself parading down the runway like on CNN’s “Style with Elsa Klensch”. I don’t even remember how much it was, I just know it was so far out of our price range that I didn’t even try to beg for it as a Christmas present.
Not to worry, I didn’t leave empty handed. At the register were sample sized bottles of perfume with bottles featuring the zig zag pattern for twelve dollars. I bought one with my own money and made that 10 ML of perfume last three years. It didn’t even smell very good as I remember, but to this day if I was to play password and the clue was “classy”, I would say “Missoni”. My Mom bought me a Missoni scarf for Christmas two years ago and I burst into tears of joy.
Recently Target premiered their Missoni line. I am torn. While I’m happy to see the democratizion of fashion, I’ve learned in the last 30 years that there is value in scarcity. Sometimes the desire for luxury is more rewarding than the luxury item itself. Will I love my Missoni for Target tote the way I loved that silly perfume bottle?
Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I will. (And I do.)
Original publish date June 10, 2012.
On Travel in Cuba, Firsthand, 2000
With all of the recent news of Cuba becoming more accessible, I’m revisiting ancient history. In January 2000 I spent 2 weeks in Cuba traveling with George Mason University. People ask me “how was it?” and I’m floored for a tidy response. I will say what it WASN’T: the cliche version of cigars and old cars barely scratches the surface. Sure, people smoke (and sell) good cigars…I even visited a tobacco farm. And yes, the cars are old and held together with duct tape. But I don’t remember that.
What follows are some journal entries, minimally edited:
- (After attending a lecture at the University of Havana): One of Castro’s 1st actions was to close the universities. Not for the reasons I would think (well, maybe those, too), but to send the students out into the countryside to eliminate illiteracy among the populace. So I guess everyone can read the sign saying the hospitals have no doctors? This was presented by the professor as a noble act- no mention of the lives thrown into chaos.
- Speaking of doctors, the bellman at our hotel in Varadero was one. He made 5x more as a bellman because he is tipped in dollars, not Cuban pesos which trade officially at 1 to 1 but trade 20 to 1 on the black market. Our tour guide? A university professor who makes 3x as a tour guide.
- Poor people aren’t “cute” but how do you maintain culture and promote development at the same time? The pride that comes from mere survival is so ingrained here that financial success might make the backbone go away.
- Varadero is beautiful but it is amazing how much 3rd world beach towns look alike, down to the stray dogs. At least here they appear well fed.
- Lunch for 2 people: black rice and beans, horse, yucca, and a beer. Bill in dollars? 15. We pulled out pesos and were charged 28: $1.40.
- Calvin peeing on a Lada: Best. Bumper. Sticker. Ever.
- Strikes me that the signs at the municipal museum in Trinidad are all handwritten.
- The Cuban people have been friendly, patient, and most of all proud. And it’s not the same lifelessly mouthed shit you see in Beijing- these people mean it. And they deserve it. It’s a cliche to talk about what money can’t buy, but I don’t think many Cubans would take prozac, even if they could get it.
My Worst Taxi-AKA The Italian Bruce Willis ear-licker story
I never thought I’d tell this story on the blog. My worst taxi story is either hilarious or terrifying, depending on my mood in the telling, but it shows me making a stupid mistake. And paying for it. However, a comment on the Is Uber Creepy? discussion (which is lively) led me to realize the story needs to be told.
Mike asked “Are you really worried that the uber driver, whose info you have on your phone and Uber has, is going to take you to a dark alley and sexually assault or rob you?”
Well, yeah. Because last year a taxi driver almost did.
It was in Rome, last August. And to be fair to Uber, it was a licensed yellow cab. I got in a cab stand and told the driver to take me to the Piazza Navona. It was my last day in Italy and I just wanted to grab a meal before packing up for my flight. The driver immediately started telling me in very broken English that I was “bella” and “sexy”* but after two weeks in Italy I laughed it off and replied in Spanish (which works most times) that I was an old witch.
*Just a quick aside here: certain attention you expect in your 20s. By the time you’re in your mid-40s with two kids it’s not flattering- it’s just vile. Especially when you’re plus size. There’s a certain type of creep that equates “plus size” with “promiscuous”. I once had a man in Madrid tell me I looked “like I had a lusty appetite” and he wasn’t just talking about food.
Then he told me his name was Felipe and said, for the first of MANY times “I am Bruce Willis, No?”. Well, actually Felipe, with your white T-shirt and earring you more resemble Mr. Clean, but whatever dude. The following conversation ensued:
Mr. Clean: “Why you go Piazza Navona?”
Me: “Voy a comer.” (I am going to eat.)
MC: “No. No. Piazza Navona no good. I take you to best restaurant. But first I show you best view of my city.”
Now up until this point it was your normal cab ride with your normal (annoying, but normal) cab banter. We’re in rush hour traffic so I could have gotten out at this point. Which I should I have done when…
he switched off the meter and abruptly turned right, going up a mountain road.
At this point my radar definitely goes up, but it’s at medium- weird, but not dangerous. We keep going for about 10 minutes and get to a lookout point. There is another car up there- a Mom and daughter- and thinking we were together (?) offered to take our picture. (Which was immediately deleted)
Here is where I should have run, but I didn’t…
he picked me up and lifted me onto the wall,
shoving his hands down the back of my pants and grabbing my bare butt in the process.
Ok, so now my radar is on high, and his hand is on my ass. I grab it and shove it away, which makes him laugh (huge warning) but I still let the other car leave so I’m alone with Mr. Clean who thinks he’s Bruce Willis on the top of a mountain.
What the #@%$ was I thinking?
I’ll tell you. I was thinking:
- I’m a soccer mom, not a hot college student. WTF?
- This is a hell of a story as long as I get out alive.
So now my focus is convincing Mr. Clean that it’s time to go. I try to get in the cab and he stands between me and the door, which I feared would happen. And here’s where he sets the terms:
Mr. C: “I showed you most beautiful view, no?”
Me: “yes, the city is bella”
Mr. C: “You are bella. Now you must kiss me. I show you view, you kiss me.”
(Uh, I don’t remember signing that contract, but if it gets me off this mountain…I think quickly and decide to offer up my cheek.)
Which he takes as an invitation to orally examine my ear.
That snaps me to my senses quickly! I shout “NO!” as I would to a dog and maneuver myself into the back seat of the taxi, locking the door. Fortunately he decides the conquest isn’t worth the chase and he dejectedly gets into the driver’s seat and drives me not to the Piazza Navona but to a restaurant in Travestere. The entire time he’s still talking as if we’re on a date and I turned him down somewhere between second and third base!
When we pull up to the restaurant he tells me he’ll be back in 90 minutes to “take you on a night tour of my city”. Needless to say, I bolt from the cab quickly.
It’s the “almost” that makes the story funny if I choose to remember it so.
I want to make clear that I don’t blame myself any more than I would slut-shame a woman dressed to go out dancing who got unwanted attention. But the bottom line is no one is going to protect me but me and I was stupid, stupid, stupid.
Ladies, watch yourselves. No matter your age or your size, some creep out there thinks he’s got the right to yippie-kay-yay on you.
The One Thing I Do To Feel Less Like a Tourist
It’s not always about what you wear, where you go, or where you stay. There’s one thing you can do every time you travel that immediately will make you feel less like a tourist: run an errand.
I’ve noticed that most trips involve some mundane task that becomes an adventure due to not being done at home. It’s not like I take my to-do list with me on the plane but the little things that happen along the way are the things that stick with me long after the trip ends.
It’s the reason I’m such a fan of slow travel. I’ll do a whirlwind weekend if I’ve no other choice. However, I really believe to begin to “get” a place you’ve got to go deeper than the Hyatt Lounge. I don’t think you need a semester to do it, but you do have to be willing to get out of the bubble.
It’s been 20 years since I lived in Beijing.
The things that stick out to me have very little to do with world wonders or monuments. They have to do with sweet potatoes, buying a bottle of water and getting pants hemmed.
As a college student, I was lucky enough to snag a part time job at the HR office in the American Embassy in Beijing. It was the fall of 1997 and during the three mile walk to work I would buy a 2 RMB (a quarter) hot sweet potato off of an oil drum and eat it like a Popsicle…still my favorite way to eat any veggie. (Side note- I don’t know if they do that anymore as the coal in those drums created terrible pollution).
“Yī píng shuǐ.” “Na ga shuǐ?” “Zhe ga shuǐ” (One bottle water. Which water? That Water.)
The conversation above marked a turning point in my Chinese adventures.
It took me two weeks to conduct a transaction entirely in Chinese. Before that most “conversations” were a mix of English, smiles, and nods. Most of my first two weeks were more tourist sight driven but on my walk home one day I got thirsty. I didn’t even realize I had spoken Chinese until two blocks later.
Towards the end of my stay I needed to get my new Winnie-the-Pooh denim jumper hemmed. (I’ll spare you the photo- it is truly tragic.) I had no idea how to find a tailor (remember this is pre-internet). The good news is by that time I realized that commerce in Beijing was everywhere. So I wandered down a random Hutong (block) and-lo and behold- I found an ancient woman with an even more ancient Singer. Mission accomplished.
Santa Monica. 2017
Today’s my birthday. I’m not pandering (I get enough well-wishes on Facebook) but it makes for a happy coincidence. Everclear, who does my favorite song, is performing tonight at a local festival.
I’m so dating myself as a Gen Xer by admitting my favorite song is Santa Monica, but there you go. Pandora describes Everclear thusly:
Though Everclear’s Northwestern grunge-punk style was hardly revolutionary when the band rose to popularity in 1995, the trio’s hook-ridden songs and Art Alexakis’ “us against them” lyrics were taken to heart by bored Gen-X teens.”
Guilty. I was in my 20s and a newlywed, but the ennui sure felt real. In fact, the song rose to be my favorite 20 years ago today.
Deal Dude and I did a lot of traveling before we were Deal Mommy and Deal Dad. So much so that we spent more of our first five years married apart than together. One stretch had Deal Dad working for six months in Melbourne, Australia. On June 10, 1997 I boarded a flight to visit him.
The Qantas flight connected through LAX and I built in an 8 hour layover. It was just enough time for me to hop a bus to, you guessed it, Santa Monica. As the sun set on the pier, I rode the Ferris Wheel and sang my heart out:
I am still living with your ghost
Lonely and dreaming of the west coast
I don’t want to be your downtime
I don’t want to be your stupid game
With my big black boots and an old suitcase
I do believe I’ll find myself a new place
I don’t want to be the bad guy
I don’t want do your sleepwalk dance anymore
I just want to see some palm trees
I will try and shake away this disease
We can live beside the ocean
Leave the fire behind
Swim out past the breakers
Watch the world die
It is a frozen moment of my life…and a terrible Gen X cliche. The only thing missing was John Cusack standing at the bottom with a Boom Box held high. But there ya go.
Fast forward 20 years later and Everclear is a nostalgia band on a Mom Rock tour. Which makes sense as I am the Deal Mommy. But in my head I’m still high up on that ferris wheel…and tonight I’ll be singing my heart out.
The Most Important Points and Miles I spent This Summer Were Also the Least Glamorous, 2016
Next week I’m headed to the French and Italian Riveras. I’ll enjoy happy hour with my $2500/Night suite in Cannes and sunbathe on the only private beach in Monte Carlo. Miles and points make it all possible. However, the most important points and miles I spent this summer involve Golden Corral and a Hyatt Place pool.
I’ve been meaning to visit a sick relative for months but just couldn’t didn’t make time. A couple of weeks ago it became apparent I needed to so sooner rather than later. Deal Dad re-arranged his schedule and I spent 15,000 Avios and 8,000 Hyatt Points (plus $110) to get there on two days notice. The flight would have cost over $350 and the hotel $300- which might have felt out of reach.
I’m so grateful that we didn’t have to make that calculation as the visit came at exactly the right time. Another week and it would have been too late.
The trip had material pleasures- I rented a SWEET souped up Dodge Challenger begging for country roads and Bloomington was surprisingly hip. But what I’ll keep with me is gratitude for being able to drop everything and get where I needed to go at exactly the moment I needed to get there.
I guess the point here- if I have to have one- is that while the Cote D’Azur will have its charms, I’ll take the Golden Corral’s breakfast chocolate fountain with the right people. And while the Mediterranean may be more famous, the Hyatt Place’s pool comes with dazzling smiles of my cousin’s kids- sights I won’t see anywhere else.
When Did My Hometown Become Hip? 2016
Well, I was born in a small town….
Deal Mommy Fun Fact: John Mellencamp and I were born in the same hospital. I lived here very briefly but much of the family I have left is still within an hour of Bloomington, Indiana. Because of this my childhood is sprinkled with visits to B-town and even our wedding was held nearby.
My memories of Bloomington include a lot of fun, but “hip college town” was never the impression I carried away from our visits here. Yes, Indiana University Basketball dominates the landscape but my connection to Bloomington was pretty much limited to Johnny Cougar and “Breaking Away”. (If you haven’t seen Breaking Away, the 1979 movie that launched Dennis Quaid, I highly recommend it.) Even in the 90s none of the “college town” patina that colored State College, PA and similar locales. It resembled “The Middle” more than hipster central.
Well, Bloomington is “The Middle” no more.
I’m writing this from my 7th floor room in the Hyatt Place that features wall art winking to IU Basketball and the Little 500 bicycle race. There’s also a Springhill Suites where not so long ago your choices were Quality Inn and Super 8. Behind the HP is a brand new science center and miles of perfectly manicured walking trails. The street leading to Campus bulges with shops begging to be explored. The pub across the street had Kilkenny on tap. Modern art adorns the buildings. In short, Bloomington is hip.
Deal Dad attributes the change to the influx of retirees and other financial boosts and noted his recent reunion at Grinnell College in rural Iowa. Where 10 years ago downtown Grinnell resembled Mayberry, it’s now chocoblock with new development of the same type I’m seeing here.
TBT Ireland 2003: Be Careful What You Wish For
I thought it would be fun to tell a #TBT Ireland story today. This is one of those stories with a clear moral I’ll share up front: Be careful what you wish for.
The time: February 2003. I was 10 weeks pregnant and MISERABLE in a way only a 1st time pregnant woman can be. Every part of my body was acting in a way I didn’t recognize, including my eyes which were tearing up at least daily. So it was probably no shock to Deal Dad to-be when he walked in and saw me bawling on the couch.
The topic that the day’s tirade? The sudden realization that my life was over (pregnancy brain tends towards the dramatic). Let me explain. No, let me sum up.
Our first seven years of marriage were education and career driven. We both also worked in consulting so travel was a constant in our lives. Deal Dad worked in Australia, I studied in Cuba and Thailand and interned in China. Even outside of work we filled our passports with regularity.
And in my hormonal brain it was about to all come crashing down. I suddenly pictured a bleak existence punctuated with only an occasional trip to Disney World (gasp!) or to see relatives in the Midwest. We had one more trip coming up in a week- to Spain- and then it was ALL over.
See where this is going?
So while we’re in Spain we pop into a Irish pub with internet access (this is pre-wifi days, folks) and Deal Dad checks his work email. And in his in-box sits his next assignment.
It’s in Dublin.
Starting in a week.
For six months.
Ummmm…WHAT?
And here’s why Deal Dad and I have made it 23 years: we looked at each other and high fived. (Ladies, if you find that guy, grab him and don’t let go!)
Moving on a week’s notice with severe morning sickness? Sure!
Giving birth on another continent? Why not?
And that’s exactly what we did. We got home from Spain and Deal Dad left right away, with me joining him two weeks later. Looking back we were so naive it was tragic but I’m grateful I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I never would have done it if I’d had too much time to think about it.
There was a STEEP learning curve- for instance it took me a week to figure out that in Ireland you give birth at a Maternity hospital which is not a regular hospital. My first semester morning sickness stretched 42 weeks- throwing up in a Dublin alley for reasons not related to Guinness is not an experience I’d recommend. It was lonely during the day- thank god for the expat community and a group of Moms who invited me to their weekly playgroup even though my kid wasn’t exactly ready to play.
On the upside: Dublin’s bus system has a wonderful network of day tours and I explored more of the countryside than would have been possible any other way. Every walk to the store was an adventure and every cab ride an odyssey: the Irish are chatty under normal circumstances but put an obvious topic in front of them…
And there’s a special irony to moving to a place so steeped in pub culture pregnant. The upside is that my OB “prescribed” me a pint of Guinness a week and I saw pre-natal vitamin ads in the pub ladies’ room- so I guess I wasn’t alone!
The best part? Deal Kid has a birth story like no one else’s and an extra homeland. We went back 10 years later and I was tearing up again often- but for a different reason.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Deal Kid.
