Granny Square Dance Stance: '90s Nostalgia but Never for Algebra or Other Unpleasant Things

Boots: Betsey Johnson, Macy's

Eighties Explosion Charm Necklace

Dress: Rewind, Kohl's

Scrunchies: Lady Arya, Zulily

The pose in this first pic was the husband's idea.  At first, I thought it was silly, as if I were wielding my granny square bag like some kind of nursing home vigilante.  But later I decided I liked it.  Maybe that's because this bag is one of my favorites.  It's so colorful and is roomier than it looks, its slouchy frame molding itself to anything I toss inside.  Best of all, I got it from Delia's way back when I was sixteen.  Remember flipping through the Delia's catalog and going on an imaginary shopping spree before deciding to spend your after-school job money on blue nail polish, then calling the order in on your landline?  Good times!    

Bag: Excel, Delia's

Anyway, I was so excited the day this bag arrived.  And I distinctly remember wearing it, along with my homemade cutoffs and halter top, to the Y100 music festival, which was held outside of Philly.  Green Day headlined, and at the end they set their drums on fire.  But before you go thinking that I was a badass, I should say that I went with my mom (and my sister and my sister's best friend and her mom).  So when I carry this bag these days, it's like I'm bringing some of the '90s with me.  Well, the good parts.  There were plenty of bad parts too (show me someone who didn't have any during her formative years, and I'll show you a liar).  But no need to go into that here, where I'm all about the fuzzy, feel-good vibes of nostalgia.  As Baz Luhrmann says in "Everybody's Free (to Wear Sunscreen)," "Advice is a form of nostalgia.  Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it's worth."  

Which brings me to the rest of my '90s-inspired outfits, including a baby doll dress, a jumper, neon barrettes, and butterfly-print tights.     

Boots: Betsey Johnson, Zulily

Dress: Trixxi, Kohl's

Striped bangle: Mixit, JCPenney; Yellow bangle: Silver Linings, Ocean City

Dress: Candie's, Kohl's

Top: Derek Heart, Macy's

Black Cherry Bow Necklace, Red Ring Necklace

Skirt: So, Kohl's

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Zulily

Dress: Candie's, Kohl's

Bag: Betsey Johnson, ROSS; Bracelets: So, Kohl's

And that's the end of this strut down memory lane.  Before I go, though, I've got two confessions to make.  The first is that last week on my way to the dentist, I rocked out to my Forever '90s CD (My favorite jam?  Eve 6's "Inside Out").  The second is that I still have a pair of (store-bought) cutoffs, complete with daisy appliques.  They're not from my teens or anything, but I haven't worn them in years.  And after trying them on with, of all things, fishnets, I think it should stay that way!  

Because nostalgic or not, some things -- algebra included -- are best left in the past.  

At least that's my advice to myself. :)      

Small Thunder: Tiny But Mighty

Pink Lady Necklace 

Top: Self Esteem, Zulily

Skirt: Stoosh, Macy's

Shoes: Payless

Bag: Liz Claiborne, JCPenney

Belt: Kohl's

Sunglasses: Relic, Kohl's

No, this isn't a tribute to that '80s sitcom about the girl robot.  It's a nod to a novel about a woman in the '60s named Tiny.  Yes, Tiny (short for Christina).  I first became acquainted with her in Beatriz Williams's The Secret Life of Violet Grant, through the lens of her sister Vivian:

"Neither of us could politely stand Tiny, who by the grace of God had married her Harvard mark last June, and now lived in a respectably shabby house in the Back Bay with a little Boston bean in her righteous oven.  God only knew how it got there!" (89)

After reading this, I thought, oh, Tiny's the stick in the mud.  We're not supposed to like her.  Yet, even with this understanding, I sensed something of myself in this precious paragon, and I knew that, were she real, I'd get along with her much better than I would Vivian.  It seemed that Williams liked her too because she wrote a follow-up book about her, Tiny Little Thing, revealing, page after page, all the reasons why she wasn't so perfect.  In it, I learned how Tiny's marriage to rising political star Franklin Hardcastle shapes her identity.  Poised and polished, Tiny is the quintessential public eye wife, with never a word or a hair out of place.  That is, until one night when she gets drunk at a fundraiser and tells a reporter how she really feels.

Williams tells the story from two points of view: Tiny's in 1966 and her husband's cousin's Caspian's (ugh, try saying that one five times fast) in 1964.  Caspian knew Tiny before she was married, so his account is much different than the account she gives of herself.  For example, it's Caspian who tells us that Tiny's a ballet dancer and that she feels the most free when she's dancing.  It's also Caspian who divulges Tiny's wish to escape.  He asks her, from what, exactly?, and she says:

"From what everyone else expects of me.  From worrying about pleasing everyone.  Playing my little role.  Living up to their expectations.  Letting their expectations become my expectations, until I can't tell what's real, what I really want, because it's all wrapped up in my wanting what they want." (114)

That's the root of Tiny's problems, the pressure to live up to an impossible ideal, to be someone she's not.  Yet as she struggles to balance her burgeoning self-awareness with the burdens of being a candidate's wife, she finds out that some of those closest to her have been pretending to be someone else, too.   

I loved this book.  And not just because it made me think of that "politicians will philander" line from Baz Luhrmann's "Everybody's Free (to Wear Sunscreen)."  Because it's beautifully written, and its characters are achingly real.  Because it's poignant and nostalgic and perceptive.  But most of all because it questions the way girls are raised.  In upper class 1960s America, yes.  But also in all kinds of households today.

On a lighter note, I was charmed by the fashion.  Tiny wears an enviable collection of evening gowns as well as scarves, gloves, and darling day dresses - one of which is a Lilly Pulitzer shift in a green monkey print.  The style is one of the best things about that tumultuous time.  It inspired me to make this Pink Lady Necklace, which combines old-fashioned, ladylike elegance with bright boho accents -- a perfect combination for a '60s heroine breaking free from her well-brought-up shell.      

Because freedom is worth its weight in couture.

And that, dear readers, is no small thing.

The Leftovers

 Midnight Masquerade Necklace

Top: Kohl's

Skirt: Ellen Tracy, JCPenney

Shoes: Worthington, JCPenney

Bag: Marshalls

Jacket: Mossimo, Target

Belt: Izod, Marshalls
Sunglasses: Rampage, Boscov's

Scarf: Wet Seal

 Emerald Impostor Necklace

 Amber Ember Necklace

 Pretty Peacock Necklace

Tee: American Rag, Macy's

Skirt: Material Girl, Macy's

Shoes: Payless

Bag: DSW

Sunglasses: Mudd, Kohl's

 Jungle Journey Necklace

Dress: Modcloth

Boots: Charles Albert, Alloy

Bag: Apt. 9, Kohl's

Jacket: Tommy Hilfiger, Marshalls

Belt: Wet Seal

Sunglasses: Relic, Kohl's

I'm not talking about that Justin Theroux series or last night's meatloaf.  I'm talking about the beads that you have left over after completing the projects for which you bought them (also about my leftover summer photographs, as flowers, smoothies, and purple bicycles should not go unshared).  You know how it goes.  Some plastic beads here, some glass beads there, with the odd extra pendant or cabochon thrown in.  More often than not, these odds and ends don't go together, and you're left wondering what to do with them.  Although this can be annoying, it's usually fun, kind of like making that questionable clearance rack caftan work with your wardrobe.  Lately, I've been trying to make necklaces that are more suited for everyday wear, and managing this mishmosh of supplies fits right in with that plan.

On a not-so-related note, I was recently flipping through some new magazines and was dismayed to find myself kind of disgruntled.  Not so much with the appearance stuff, which I take with a grain of salt (nothing like heeding the advice of Baz Luhrmann's "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)": "Do NOT read beauty magazines; they will only make you feel ugly."), but with the pop psychology, how-to-be-a-better-person sort of stuff.  It's either stuff I already know, or stuff I don't want to know, like how to bake a gourmet turkey, how to do exercises at your desk, or how to strike up conversations with strangers.  I couldn't help but remember a college professor who had a negative view of women's magazines.  She said that they were all about convincing women that they needed to fix themselves, showing them how to be skinnier and prettier, better cooks, better lovers, better mothers.  Twenty-year-old me thought she was full of it.  Magazines were bursting with color and possibility, not to mention a welcome escape from my World Drama homework.  I think it took so long for me to realize their true duplicity because I never set out to do what they said, instead mesmerized by their splashy layouts like a child immersed in elaborate picture books.  Although still of that mind, I now find the content even less entertaining.  Stripped of such glitter, it all seems a little stress-inducing and judgy, the very antithesis of an indulgent diversion.

I think that's why I'd rather read novels, which are almost always enriching and peaceful.  I just finished a most restful example, A Week in Winter by the late great Maeve Binchy.  It tells the stories of guests at Stone House, an Irish hotel that serves up solace every bit as warm and restorative as its hearty soups (a ringing endorsement, as I don't even like soup).  Here's one of my favorite parts:

"Chestnut grove [not to be confused with the aforementioned Stone House; this book is teeming with inviting edifices] was a house that would have suited nobody except Eva: it was in poor repair, with a wild, rambling garden, very shaky plumbing, and unreliable electrical works.  She really couldn't afford the cost of maintaining it properly, and it might have seemed sensible to sell the place -- but when had Eva ever done the sensible thing? . . . There were clothes hanging in every room; on almost every wall there were hangers holding colorful, inexpensive dresses, often with a matching stole or hat.  Eva would pick them up at markets, car-boot sales, or closing-down sales.  She had never bought a normal dress in what might be called a normal shop.  Eva found the price of designer clothes so impossible to understand that she had refused to think about it anymore.  What were women doing, allowing themselves to be sucked into a world of labels and trends and the artificial demands of style?  Eva couldn't begin to fathom it.  She had only two rules of style -- easy care and brightly colored -- and was perfectly well dressed for every occasion." (355-356)

I found this passage to be so refreshing and carefree compared to the unyielding do's and don'ts espoused by the glossies.  Chestnut Grove sounds like the kind of house I'd love to live in, a magical mess of a place in delightful violation of most monthlys' rigid edicts.  The rest of the story is just as wonderful.  I hate hiking almost as much as I hate soup, but the book was so enchanting that I found myself wishing that I could stay at Stone House to walk its cliffs in an anorak and wellies.

And finally, as the last thread in this unraveling sweater of a post, the husband and I cannot imagine a world without Joan Rivers or a Friday night without "Fashion Police."  We followed her condition online until she passed last Thursday, somewhat bittersweetly during Fashion Week.  For years we tuned in weekly for Joan's colorful zingers, dissolving into laughter as she delivered one outrageous analogy after another.  Razor-sharp and unrelenting, Joan's wit was the star of the show, the celebrity fashions merely the window dressing.  Without it, our Friday night post-pizza snack will lose some of its flavor, and whatever we watch will be bland compared to its bite.  Rest in peace, Joan.  You always wore it well.