The One Where I Don’t Go to the Kentucky Derby…

Tags

Abraham Lincoln, books, Churchill Downs, fashion, follow a dream, hats, horse racing, horses, Kentucky Derby, Kentucky Oaks

A month ago, my husband surprised me with an early 50th birthday present – a road trip to the Abraham Lincoln Museum in Springfield, IL, followed by a visit to family in Tennessee, and on to the Kentucky Derby.

See what I mean? I need more Abe books…

It was a dream come true on many levels. For those of you who don’t know, I have a pretty big crush on Abe. I’ve written about him before and have a nice collection of books about him – but not nearly enough.

And attending the Kentucky Derby? That’s been Dream Numero Uno for many years. I watch the Derby every year. Every. Year. When the horses are led from the stalls to the track, my heart skips around and by the time the horses come around the final curve, I sometimes forget to breathe. Good stuff, man.

Our tickets were good for both the Kentucky Oaks, run Friday afternoon, and the Derby on Saturday.

Friday afternoon, we parked in a lot a few miles away from Churchill Downs and took the shuttle bus to the racetrack. Traffic snarled, and it took about an hour to get there.

People watching was great! Hats were everywhere, and one man in an gleaming top hat and tails leaned against a rail. In the gift store, an elegant lady wore a graceful hat – its feathers wisped above her face, and her finger flashed a diamond the size of a dime.

The gift store was mobbed, though – bodies pressed together and we moved with our shoes gummed to the floor.

This lady still had the tags on her hat…

The infield was crazy, too. People milled like ants, and we finally found an open spot near the beer tent. Nearby, two girls wrestled. Another girl tottered around on cork-heeled shoes – one heel had mashed flat, leaving her with a lopsided gait that sloshed beer from her cup. Step, spill. Step, spill.

We were just in time to watch the start of the Oaks on the Jumbotron. Suddenly, my husband grabbed my arm and pointed.

“Look,” Tim said, “there they are!”

In a rush, I watched the tips of the horses’ ears as they raced by, the wild colors of the jockeys’ silks flashing before being lost in the crowd.

That’s all I saw. Just like that, the race was over.

We threaded our way to the tunnel, jostling with the crowd making their way to the row of shuttle buses. It isn’t worth mentioning my porta-potty experience except to tell you not to use them if you go. Ever.

We were there for an hour, snaking our way along the s-shaped waiting fences. A large man in front of us wore a uniform of black: pants, vest, fedora and sunglasses. He spewed fumes of cigar smoke behind him, and I inched down, trying to avoid the cloud. His wife tottered unsteadily on teal-colored high heels, swearing a little more boisterously with each gulp of her mint julep.

The couple behind us argued over what shuttle bus to take. What if they boarded the wrong one? What if they ended up at the wrong parking lot? The woman promised the man that she’d “knock him so hard he wouldn’t know what hit him” if this happened. It was his fault, after all, because he bought the tickets.

At this point, I realized that Saturday’s Derby would be worse. Much worse. And I didn’t think this was for me anymore. I hadn’t felt a sense of peace since we entered the gates at Churchill Downs; I hadn’t even seen any of the majestic horses do what they’re bred to do – race with all their heart, running as fast as they can to the finish line.

“I don’t think I can do this tomorrow,” I told Tim.

Being the level-headed person he is, he suggested we return to the hotel and sleep on it. In the morning, deep down, though, I felt the same. I knew I’d rather be at home, watching the race on our TV, listening to the announcers tell me about each beautiful horse as it was led to the starting gate.

Dunbar Cave

So we drove home. And I don’t feel like I lost out on my dream of attending the Kentucky Derby. At all. How could I complain about what Tim had done? Two days learning more about Abraham Lincoln; watching our little grandson jump on his trampoline; hiking the trails at Dunbar Cave State Park, and enjoying time in Nashville. Our Kentucky Derby plans were only a small part of that week.

Not every dream gets fulfilled the way we think it will. Or maybe even needs to. And that’s OK.

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Quit When You’re Ahead???

Tags

cashmere, clothing, fashion, grammar, humor, Lands' End, quitting, shirts, style, sweaters, vests, words, writing, writing tips

I like Lands’ End clothes. There. I said it.

My LE vest collection

I’m not obsessed; that sounds stalker-y and decidedly creepy. Rather, I prefer the benign-sounding “appreciate” to describe how I feel about the quality of their clothes, the color selections, and the fact that their customer service people are downright friendly.

Why, just yesterday I placed a reorder and the customer service lady and I ended up chatting about the little village where I live and its proximity to the lake. What’s not to like about that?

Almost made me want to order another pair of pants as long as I was at it!

I also read the humorous and informative View from the Lighthouse, Lands’ End’s blog. I’d love to write for them someday, given my interest in clothes and my enjoyment of words; for now, I’m content to hear what their writers have to say.

Imagine my surprise when “Bob, an actual writer here at Lands’ End” wrote about his experiences with knowing when to quit in his blog post “Seams Plausible: How Many…How Long…How Many…”

My LE gingham shirt collection…

Seems (or is that “seams?”) Bob and I share a problem. No, not when to stop buying Lands’ End gingham shirts (see photo at right…) but when to quit it with the words.

It’s so hard – sometimes the words just flow, a veritable Vesuvius of vocabulary, and I end my writing day in a semi-comatose state, fairly drooling over my keyboard. Words march, like a picnic under attack by an ant hill, across my screen.

Then the new day dawns, and I revisit the scene of my crime. I’m shocked, shocked I tell you, by what I’ve spewed on the page. Why did I get so windy? Who wants to read all this garbage?

Thankfully, help is available. The Daily Muse has five great suggestions, one of which is to be ruthless. “Chop some of those words, sentences and paragraphs,” they say. It “will help make sure that the true meat of your piece is what shines.”

My LE cashmere sweaters

They also advise eliminating all the adjectives and adverbs, but jeez, isn’t that going a bit far? I think I’ll save that exercise for my next piece, and order a few more cashmere sweaters instead…

Bob, a writer at Lands’ End

In the meantime, I’m glad someone else out there can identify with me. Thanks a lot, Bob, and here’s to happy writing!

 

The Mouse Jacket

Tags

creative writing, fashion, humor, jeans, mouse, Susie Lindau, Toyota

(A humorous essay from the book I’m working on, The Green Hornet Suit…)

A few years ago, my parents took a road trip to Georgetown, Kentucky, to tour the Toyota manufacturing plant. That wasn’t the sole destination of the trip; it just so happened that the factory was on their way home, and being retired with nothing better to do, they decided to stop.

It also seems that while they were there, Dad needed a jacket. Keep in mind that he’s prone to impulse buying. Some of us are just happy to snag a good deal on a laptop now and then, but when his stops working, say, the lid makes a funny creaking sound when it closes, he’s off to the store for its replacement.

He was a traveling salesman for years, and he routinely came home toting new suits, bags of donuts or specialty cheese, or even bigger things that only fit in the garage. We never knew, because my mom got to the point where she refused to crack the garage door on reality, feeling that ignorance in this matter was her own form of bliss.

So my parents took the Toyota plant tour, getting the lowdown on how all the cars look before they’re recalled. Afterward, Dad decided he needed a new jacket. Why, I’ll never know, because his closet was already stuffed with blazers and button-down oxford shirts, ties dripping off the rack like dead pheasants, but he decided a new jacket was in order, so he bought the Mouse Jacket.

Not the actual Mouse Jacket, but you get the idea.

I’m sure he could have picked from a number of snazzy Toyota-embellished models, racing jackets, or logoed windbreakers. His, though, was a yawny tan, a nondescript number with a zip front and two side pockets with handy-dandy snaps, practical things meant for storing bottles of blood pressure tablets or dried-up hankies.

It wasn’t “him” at all, and he announced this fact whenever he got the chance.

“Looks like I’ll wear the Mouse Jacket today,” he’d say with a put-on sigh, like he didn’t have ten other jackets to choose from.

My parents would be invited out with friends, the Mouse Jacket a silent, nondescript dinner companion, watching the festivities with a twitchy, quivering air.

“Yes, I wore the Mouse Jacket,” my dad reported after such an event. “I was the only one there with a jacket like that.”

I started to wonder if there was some connection between age and washed-out clothing – kids will wear sequins and stripes, toss on mismatched colors like salt on popcorn, but as people age, their clothing colors dry up, like their sartorial exploration evaporated, leaving behind a crackle-topped pond of memories.

I witnessed this at Sears a few years ago, where my original mission was to find a new pair of jeans. This is more like an adventure that’s best done in stages, the Everest of fashion, if you will.

Base Camp #1 is canvassing the store, seeing what kind of jeans they stock.

Base Camp #2 involves actually taking a pair or ten off the racks and holding them up to your body, flipping them this way and that as you imagine yourself wearing them…maybe.

Base Camp #3 is where you examine the jeans, looking for the crucial back-pocket placement. Too close and your butt looks huge. Too far apart and your butt looks huge. Too small and your butt looks huge…it never ends.

Not me, but you get the idea.

Base Camp #4 involves narrowing down your choices and actually trying a pair or ten on. Legs too skinny and you’ll look like an ice cream cone. Legs too wide and you’ll look like you’re going to a hoe-down. Combine that with the pocket placement issue and you could be there all day.

Base Camp #5? Maybe you’ll buy a pair, but more likely, you’ll give up and go out for a drink or ten.

I was in the middle of Base Camp #3 when I spotted two grannies a few racks away. They were picking through shirts, and it seemed like one granny was helping the other make some critical choices.

While I agonized over my jeans dilemma, the grannies hit pay dirt.

“Ooh, look at this shirt, Helen,” Granny #2 gushed. “I think it’ll be perfect with the pants you’re wearing.”

I was happy for them! Together, they defied the odds and actually found something to wear in less time than it took me to find a pair of jeans. While I was still struggling to reach Base Camp #4, they blazed past me and summitted before my very eyes.

Then I looked at what Granny #2 held up – a tan, short-sleeved polyester shirt with little bitsy pearl buttons. Helen was apparently going to wear this with the tan pants she already had on. It was an entire Mouse Outfit, defying every fashion law saying you mustn’t, shouldn’t, ever wear color-on-color, especially after Memorial Day.

It brazenly bucked tradition, and darn it all, she was happy. The shirt went in the cart, and the grannies wheeled off to plant their flag at the nearest checkout.

I stood there at Base Camp #3, jeans hanging limply in defeat. When all it takes is a tan shirt and a Mouse Jacket to make you happy, where was I going wrong? Reality zipped up my backside with cold teeth – would that be me someday, shopping with a friend, ecstatic because I found the perfect Mouse Jacket, or an oatmealy shirt to wear with my poly pants?

At this point, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I knew one thing: I wouldn’t reach Base Camp #5 anytime soon.

 

 

 

The Sartorial Splendor of WWW

Tags

Coco Chanel, creative writing, dressing, fashion, grandma, humor, Paris France, snogly geared, weird word, well-dressed people

My grandma used to say that the older she got, the faster time went. I’m not ready for a rocking chair yet, but I’m starting to know what she means. Every two weeks, I stop at the credit union to get money for grocery shopping. The days between paydays seem to buzz by at lightning speed, two weeks passing by like two hours.

There I was again, waiting my turn in line. This time, people watching kept me occupied, particularly a couple ahead of me. What surprised me was the woman’s feet – she wore pink bedroom slippers, the kind with fuzzy fringe around the top. Really? Really? 

Yes, there they were – an article of clothing that shouldn’t have left the house. (I admit – I have issues with this, which you can read more about here.) It made me think of a word that perfectly describes how one should be attired when leaving the house, an 18th-century doozy:

Snogly geared

Courtesy Google books

Remember this stuff?

My grandma usually wore a dress, sensible shoes with square heels, and carried a purse with those bitsy metal nibs on the bottom. Her “unmentionables” consisted of a girdle, complete with stockings that clipped to its legs. If it rained, she donned a plastic bonnet to protect her hair, set with rollers and Dippety-do.

Grandma was snogly geared.

It’s easy to find people who are snogly geared, because they stand out. Today I saw a man wearing a handsome plaid coat, cuffed wool slacks and polished black leather dress shoes. He caught my eye, and I appreciated the time and effort he put into his appearance.

Last year, we went to Paris, France, where I saw snogly geared taken to an extreme. We were the last in line to buy subway tickets, and I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a transvestite, waving a champagne bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.

Her long black hair swished across her red satin dress, and a feather boa wound itself flimsily across her shoulders. I noticed strappy sandals on some rather large feet, but had to give her credit – her toenails were lacquered the exact shade of her dress.

She asked me something in French, and when I shrugged, she smiled and tottered away, ankles wobbling as she headed up the steps.

Indeed, she was snogly geared, dressed for whatever her day had in store. No slippers here!

I leave you with a thought from fashion designer Coco Chanel, who said “Dress shabbily and they remember the dress; dress impeccably and they remember the woman.”

Coco Chanel, from biography.com

Weird Word Wednesday!

Tags

fashion, National Trail Mix Day, politics, strange holidays, weird words, writing

Welcome to Weird Word Wednesday!

Tell me something…have you ever been in a conversation with a friend who repeatedly changed their opinion? One minute she was giddy with joy that plaid bell bottoms were staging a comeback; the next she waxed lyrical about the slimming qualities of Bad Mom Jeans.

Gadzooks! It’s enough to make your head spin!

When you’re left feeling conversationally bamboozled, it’s likely you were in the presence of a tergiversator.

Tergiversate means “to change repeatedly one’s attitudes or opinions with respect to a cause, subject, etc.” It’s pronounced ter-ji-ver-sate.

The horror you’re feeling isn’t caused by the impending return of plaid bell bottoms; it’s because mentally, you can’t keep up.

Just when Wilbur thought he had Edna figured out, her tergiversation kicked in. She took off work to man the stand at the “National Trail Mix Day” festivities. Mere hours before the parade started, she declared to a puzzled Wilbur that the whole thing was a waste of her time.

Tergiversation can strike at any time, with any subject. From fluffy ones all the way to politics and global warming, everyone’s got their opinion.

But what to do with a tergiversator? Walk away? Nod and smile as you mentally check out? Wear Bad Mom Jeans as defensive armor? I tend to glaze over and make insignificant “mmmm” noises until I can break free. Ideas, anyone?

Weird Word Wednesday!

Tags

copywriting, editing, fashion, grammar, history, humor, medieval, proofreading, proper grammar, shoes, strange word, weird word, winklepicker, words, writing

Winklepicker! This week’s Weird Word’s just plain fun to say. Winklepicker!

Winklepickers are vaguely Medieval-looking, which is when they first came into vogue. These shoes were spotted on the feet of the French ruling class back in the late 1400s. You really had to be nimble-footed to flap around town wearing these things! Sometimes, the points were so long that wearers tied a string from their knees to the shoe’s tips to keep the points from getting in the way as they stumbled about Ye Olde Town! And they talk about suffering for fashion nowadays…

atomretro.com

A few centuries later, the winklepicker was revived, albeit with a few changes. This time, 1950s and 60s British rock ‘n rollers and their fans took to wearing them, and thankfully, these modern versions didn’t need the knee strings! These funky winklepickers sported buckles, perforations, prints, you name it. Women even got in on the act, wobbling along on high-heeled versions.

So, what is it about shoes? I was in a book store in Manitowoc, WI., a few months ago, and came across a small book about the history of shoes. I don’t remember the title, but I do remember seeing a pair of men’s high heel shoes, dating back to the early 1700s, when King Louis XIV of France, wore heeled shoes, some decorated with battle scenes. These pumps towered with five-inch heels, and Louis took it a step further, issuing a royal decree that no one else’s heels could be higher than his. Hmmm…I sense a smidgen of royal insecurity here…

blog.lulus.com

Meanwhile, in Venice, Italy, women were traipsing along on platform shoes called”chopines.” These monsters could reach twenty inches in height, and women wearing them were often accompanied by a servant who would help their mistresses totter around town. Height conferred status – the higher the platform, the higher the status of the wearer. There was a secondary purpose to chopines, too  – back then, Venice wasn’t known for being the cleanest city, with debris and even sewage clogging the streets, so being high off the walking path had its advantages. No winklepickers here!

I’ll leave the last word to a five-year-old I know. Girls this age love dressing up, and they’re not at all afraid to mix patterns with sequins, stripes and even feathers if they’re handy. When birthday time rolled around, this little girl wrote out a list of ten items she wanted, and number eight was the following:

“A pair of high hell shoes.”

That pretty well says it all!

Insure vs. Ensure vs. the Aliens

Tags

ensure, fashion, ferdinand marcos, humor, imelda marcos, insure, shoes, writing

So…what’s the difference between “insure” and “ensure”?  I got a request to cover this conundrum, so here we go.

It’s basically a matter of money. Yes, cold, hard cash does the trick here.

“Insure” means to protect against loss, most commonly by way of an insurance policy. Like this:

When Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos fled the Philippines in 1986, it was rumored that Imelda left behind over 1000 pairs of shoes, almost 900 purses and 71 pairs of sunglasses. Alas, Imelda had none of her possessions insured against this type of misfortune.

What a fashion setback! We don’t have to stick with personal possessions to insure something – although we normally think of health or vacation insurance, people have also insured themselves against alien abductions. Really.

Moving on, “ensure” lacks the direct monetary connection – it’s more of a guarantee. So if your grandma is expecting 20 for Thanksgiving dinner, she might make six pumpkin pies to ensure that she has enough for everyone.

Granny also might want to take out an insurance policy just in case those aliens show up for the big gig…