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Dec
31
Pretty colors
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Okay, I don’t really know exactly what this tells anyone, except that the numbers more or less increase as the months pass. I think that’s a good thing, but, not being one of those attention-starved bloggers, I can’t really say.
Hat tip to Adam Harvey of Organic/Mechanic for the idea.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 5:25 pm December 31st, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
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Dec
31
Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 167 BC
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Talk about evolution.
My mother married at 19, and had three kids by 1965, just a month after she’d turned 26. My dad was 30. Vietnam and the civil rights movement occupied the news, the first American walked in space and a stamp cost five cents. Books published that year include Malcolm X’s autobiography, and works by Sylvia Plath and Eudora Welty, all three of whom were still alive. The Sound of Music was released.
But my mother’s clothing? I’ve never been able to determine who body snatched her during those years. Her closet contained ponchos and go-go boots, but to me, nothing she wore ever seemed to go-go. Her chosen hues, textures and accessories always clashed.
And I played the role of the perpetually embarrassed daughter. By the age of 11, I became hyper-critical about how well everything matched. My room: flawless pinks. My clothes, blues. Even when I had my first car, a hand-me-down pistachio green Volkswagon Rabbit (burned out a couple of its clutches), I owned jackets and hats that matched the green perfectly.
Then, one school day morning, about a year ago, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized, I’d become my mother.
On my feet: pink mesh slip-on clog-like shoes and ecru-colored cashmere socks (small luxury for a writer who works in a poorly insulated walkout basement)
On my legs: dark olive green yoga-pant shaped polartec pants
On my upper body: lavender-blue sweatshirt from the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut
My hair and face: clean but no makeup
I laughed with a snort and immediately knew: this is how my mother ended up looking the way she did every morning when I was growing up. Necessity had body snatched her sense of style.
I know this because it’s robbed me of mine nearly every morning that I don’t have to be in front of or side by side people who are not primary caretakers. Sure, I still have some friends who don’t wear jeans outside the house, but look around in the supermarkets and Starbucks. What are these women wearing? You joke about the tres she-she-poo-poo expensive dressed down outfits of the suburban coffee house woman who has made us believe that there’s an art to mixing and matching.
But style, thy name is necessity. And it looks pretty hilarious on me most weekday mornings. Some days, by the time my husband gets home, I’m still looking pretty hilarious.
So here’s where evolution comes in.
See that picture at the top of this entry? See the candle colors on each menorah? As perfectly monochromatic as a Regis Philbin tie, suit and pocket square?
My nearly nine-year old daughter did that. And she’s been picky about how her clothes match for at least two years now.
Nature or nurture? I’m going with nature on this one because how else can I explain my instinct – against my mother’s style – to anal retentively match everything (to the point where I over-bleached all the walls in my house with off-white paint and wallpaper) or my daughter’s instinct, contrary to what she sees me wear 90% of the time, to match those candles?
Of course, she is the artistic one in the family and she’s a redhead – precisely the same combination as my mother’s mother. Nature, definitely.
Thank God my mother can’t see me in the mornings now.
Me – I no longer discriminate between the matched and unmatched among us. To one and all, have a very chappy sixth (last night) and seventh night (tonight) of Chanuka, and Chappy New Year.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 1:32 pm December 31st, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
Print This Post
Dec
31
Pretty colors
Filed Under Politics | Comments Off
Okay, I don’t really know exactly what this tells anyone, except that the numbers more or less increase as the months pass. I think that’s a good thing, but, not being one of those attention-starved bloggers, I can’t really say.
Hat tip to Adam Harvey of Organic/Mechanic for the idea.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 1:25 pm December 31st, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
Print This Post
Dec
31
Pretty colors
Filed Under Politics | Comments Off
Okay, I don’t really know exactly what this tells anyone, except that the numbers more or less increase as the months pass. I think that’s a good thing, but, not being one of those attention-starved bloggers, I can’t really say.
Hat tip to Adam Harvey of Organic/Mechanic for the idea.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 10:25 am December 31st, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
Print This Post
Dec
31
Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 167 BC
Filed Under Politics | Comments Off
Talk about evolution.
My mother married at 19, and had three kids by 1965, just a month after she’d turned 26. My dad was 30. Vietnam and the civil rights movement occupied the news, the first American walked in space and a stamp cost five cents. Books published that year include Malcolm X’s autobiography, and works by Sylvia Plath and Eudora Welty, all three of whom were still alive. The Sound of Music was released.
But my mother’s clothing? I’ve never been able to determine who body snatched her during those years. Her closet contained ponchos and go-go boots, but to me, nothing she wore ever seemed to go-go. Her chosen hues, textures and accessories always clashed.
And I played the role of the perpetually embarrassed daughter. By the age of 11, I became hyper-critical about how well everything matched. My room: flawless pinks. My clothes, blues. Even when I had my first car, a hand-me-down pistachio green Volkswagon Rabbit (burned out a couple of its clutches), I owned jackets and hats that matched the green perfectly.
Then, one school day morning, about a year ago, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized, I’d become my mother.
On my feet: pink mesh slip-on clog-like shoes and ecru-colored cashmere socks (small luxury for a writer who works in a poorly insulated walkout basement)
On my legs: dark olive green yoga-pant shaped polartec pants
On my upper body: lavender-blue sweatshirt from the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut
My hair and face: clean but no makeup
I laughed with a snort and immediately knew: this is how my mother ended up looking the way she did every morning when I was growing up. Necessity had body snatched her sense of style.
I know this because it’s robbed me of mine nearly every morning that I don’t have to be in front of or side by side people who are not primary caretakers. Sure, I still have some friends who don’t wear jeans outside the house, but look around in the supermarkets and Starbucks. What are these women wearing? You joke about the tres she-she-poo-poo expensive dressed down outfits of the suburban coffee house woman who has made us believe that there’s an art to mixing and matching.
But style, thy name is necessity. And it looks pretty hilarious on me most weekday mornings. Some days, by the time my husband gets home, I’m still looking pretty hilarious.
So here’s where evolution comes in.
See that picture at the top of this entry? See the candle colors on each menorah? As perfectly monochromatic as a Regis Philbin tie, suit and pocket square?
My nearly nine-year old daughter did that. And she’s been picky about how her clothes match for at least two years now.
Nature or nurture? I’m going with nature on this one because how else can I explain my instinct – against my mother’s style – to anal retentively match everything (to the point where I over-bleached all the walls in my house with off-white paint and wallpaper) or my daughter’s instinct, contrary to what she sees me wear 90% of the time, to match those candles?
Of course, she is the artistic one in the family and she’s a redhead – precisely the same combination as my mother’s mother. Nature, definitely.
Thank God my mother can’t see me in the mornings now.
Me – I no longer discriminate between the matched and unmatched among us. To one and all, have a very chappy sixth (last night) and seventh night (tonight) of Chanuka, and Chappy New Year.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 9:32 am December 31st, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
Print This Post
Dec
31
Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 167 BC
Filed Under Politics | Comments Off
Talk about evolution.
My mother married at 19, and had three kids by 1965, just a month after she’d turned 26. My dad was 30. Vietnam and the civil rights movement occupied the news, the first American walked in space and a stamp cost five cents. Books published that year include Malcolm X’s autobiography, and works by Sylvia Plath and Eudora Welty, all three of whom were still alive. The Sound of Music was released.
But my mother’s clothing? I’ve never been able to determine who body snatched her during those years. Her closet contained ponchos and go-go boots, but to me, nothing she wore ever seemed to go-go. Her chosen hues, textures and accessories always clashed.
And I played the role of the perpetually embarrassed daughter. By the age of 11, I became hyper-critical about how well everything matched. My room: flawless pinks. My clothes, blues. Even when I had my first car, a hand-me-down pistachio green Volkswagon Rabbit (burned out a couple of its clutches), I owned jackets and hats that matched the green perfectly.
Then, one school day morning, about a year ago, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized, I’d become my mother.
On my feet: pink mesh slip-on clog-like shoes and ecru-colored cashmere socks (small luxury for a writer who works in a poorly insulated walkout basement)
On my legs: dark olive green yoga-pant shaped polartec pants
On my upper body: lavender-blue sweatshirt from the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut
My hair and face: clean but no makeup
I laughed with a snort and immediately knew: this is how my mother ended up looking the way she did every morning when I was growing up. Necessity had body snatched her sense of style.
I know this because it’s robbed me of mine nearly every morning that I don’t have to be in front of or side by side people who are not primary caretakers. Sure, I still have some friends who don’t wear jeans outside the house, but look around in the supermarkets and Starbucks. What are these women wearing? You joke about the tres she-she-poo-poo expensive dressed down outfits of the suburban coffee house woman who has made us believe that there’s an art to mixing and matching.
But style, thy name is necessity. And it looks pretty hilarious on me most weekday mornings. Some days, by the time my husband gets home, I’m still looking pretty hilarious.
So here’s where evolution comes in.
See that picture at the top of this entry? See the candle colors on each menorah? As perfectly monochromatic as a Regis Philbin tie, suit and pocket square?
My nearly nine-year old daughter did that. And she’s been picky about how her clothes match for at least two years now.
Nature or nurture? I’m going with nature on this one because how else can I explain my instinct – against my mother’s style – to anal retentively match everything (to the point where I over-bleached all the walls in my house with off-white paint and wallpaper) or my daughter’s instinct, contrary to what she sees me wear 90% of the time, to match those candles?
Of course, she is the artistic one in the family and she’s a redhead – precisely the same combination as my mother’s mother. Nature, definitely.
Thank God my mother can’t see me in the mornings now.
Me – I no longer discriminate between the matched and unmatched among us. To one and all, have a very chappy sixth (last night) and seventh night (tonight) of Chanuka, and Chappy New Year.
By Jill Miller Zimon at 6:32 am December 31st, 2005 in Politics | Comments Off
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