the chelsea chronicles

Fall Fashion Finds

Who isn’t dreaming of fall? As I have previously established, it’s almost all that I think about. As if the Sweat Ceiling 2011 weren’t enough to send my daydreams in the direction of crisp October afternoons and brilliant foliage, I had to go and get the Simply Soles Fall Preview Catalog. I believe I previously referred to this catalog as “shoe porn” but it’s so much more than that. They sell purses. They have accessories. Jewelry. And I want it all.

I play this game with myself sometimes. I go to a favorite online store, put everything I want in the shopping cart, just to see how much the grand total would be if I could indeed buy everything. (Let’s just say when it comes to outfitting my fall wardrobe, I am in love with more than a mortgage’s worth of precious finds from the latest Simply Soles catalog). The way this game plays out is that I negotiate with myself. After putting together the “dream shopping cart” of everything I want, I go back through and ixnay the items that are too much like something I already own. I think critically about what outfits I could pair with the items in question. I don’t always look for versatility. But if I am making an investment, I want it to fit in my wardrobe without requiring additional purchases. The said good(s) should enhance my “look” and of course, I love something that I know is unique. I don’t want to be in an elevator in the Dirksen building sporting the same something as someone else, unless that someone is Adrienne (whose office is in the Dirksen building and who seems to share my taste in Chie Miharas). Of course, there is the matter of budget too. I have a cap. If I want to exceed the cap, I have to cut elsewhere, and/or go seek additional revenue. Imagine that for a formula?

While a picture is worth a thousand words (and all my favorite items look so pretty when pictured together) I do have to briefly expound upon each of my new true loves. First, the footwear. The Bettye Muller Treat in Platino might be my new favorite child. I actually own this pump in buff (the palest pink) and when I bought it, in my on-line review I wrote that I wanted a pair in every color. Two is a good start. As for the Frye boot, it is the perfect shade of distressed gray. I have been cruising for a tall gray riding boot, but nothing struck me as quite right until I saw this beauty. And I know a Frye boot will last forever, which immediately gives this item frontrunner status. The orange Dana Davis is the wildcard here. You know me and my pop of orange. I want to wear it with jeans, a structured blazer, and a great scarf.

Speaking of, does anything say fall more than the perfect scarf? While I usually opt for solids, this Orla Kiely acorn print in my favorite neutral hues has definitely caught my attention. And the Fornash necklace would work with just about every item in my fall wardrobe. (I have already tried it on mentally with everything hanging in my guest room closet where off season clothes wait to be worn.)

But really, the crown jewel of my list of needful things is the Isabella Fiore satchel. This bag screams autumn. It is busier than my usual handbag choices (I can see those of you who have seen my neon orange Kate Spade Scout rolling your eyes) but this bag has both the structure I like and the space I need.

While negotiators hole up in their partisan hovels, taking our economy to the brink, I am going to be playing my own budget game, but with less severe worldwide consequences. And if I reach a stalemate with myself, I might even resort to eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

hard as nails

When the going gets tough in this city, well, often, the tough get a manicure. I know it seems like a shallow thing to think, do and write about in these dark and sweaty times. The world economy is on the brink of collapse due in total part to the partisan posturing of political leaders in DC. This weekend, bombs rocked Norway, the home of the Nobel Peace Prize. And in case you hadn’t noticed, a massive heat dome has been sitting menacingly over our country.

Sometimes you just need to get away, even for 45 minutes.

Those who see me on a regular basis probably have not missed that I like dark nail polish. I can’t quite go as far as the black shade that my friend Kara carries off so well, but I usually wear polish as dark as I can get that isn’t black. This obsession started nearly 20 years ago. I was recently out of college and read in some fashion magazine about Chanel nail polish in Vamp. Oh, how I coveted Vamp. But my post-college budget did not have room for a $25 nail polish. So I admired from afar. Then a friend of my dad’s heard me mention Vamp and surprised me with my very own bottle.

Even today, equivalent shades at a better price point like Essie’s Wicked or OPI’s Lincoln Park After Dark are my go-to when I am having my nails done. But in the summer, sometimes I feel pressured to at least try to embrace a brightness of color. Sometimes that color is coral. Sometimes red. But usually after a few “happy color” manicures, I revert back to my old ways. After all, I am a self-professed creature of habit.

I had just that kind of manicure a few weeks ago. I loved the bright purple in the salon. It looked great on my toes with sandals. (I am one of those people who wears the same nail color on toes and hands.) But after about two days, I was done with it. I was sitting in a meeting, distracted by my own nails, wishing I had taken the polish off that morning. As if to torment me more, I then ran across a post announcing Chanel’s new limited edition fall nail color line-up. I became singularly focused on wanting the greenish color pictured in the middle. Peridot. I’m no more a green nail polish wearer than I am watermelon, but I had to have it.

After about three days of thinking such, I gave in and on a whim, drove out to Nordstrom to buy Peridot. I didn’t even try the sample on in the store (was still wearing the hated purple). I contemplated a manicure on my way home, but it was getting late and I wanted to get home and cook dinner. I was slicing a baguette to toast into croutons when the great slip of 2011 occurred. Let’s just say multi-tasking with a serrated knife is not smart. That knife cut right through my thumbnail, about half way down the bed of my thumb. It took days to stanch the bleeding, and even now, two weeks later, despite all my yogurt eating, my nail is not yet in a manicure-able state.

So Peridot, along with tall boots and sweaters, will have to wait a little while longer. Let’s hope in the meantime for a deal on the debt ceiling and a break in these sweltering temperatures.

the boy who lives

Why am I so obsessed with Harry Potter? Long before I gave birth to two equally-obsessed mammals, I devoured Harry Potter like I did Sweet Valley High romances when in the sixth grade. I had the advantage of the first two Harry Potter books being out when I first discovered the world’s most famous wizard, then I waited with great anticipation for each sequel that followed. Every time a new book was about to be released, I reread the entire series. That means I have read The Sorcerer’s Stone approximately six times (okay, seven if you include the time I read it to Jack and Colin).

The one book that I had not read multiple times was the long-awaited last book in the series, The Deathly Hallows, which I had read (until this weekend) a sum total of once. Of course, I meant to reread it before the first half of the movie came out last November, but decided instead to reread The Half Blood Prince, one of my favorites. Then kids, work, and other books consumed my time and before I knew it, we were on the cusp of the hallowed (no pun intended) release of part two (otherwise known in my house as “the eight movie”) without my getting in a repeat read.

That did not diminish my spirit. The boys and I re-watched a movie a night leading up to the premier. I cried at scenes I have seen scores of times. I prepared costumes for myself and the boys to wear to the movie and a costume party afterwards. I continued to read The Goblet of Fire to Colin, but found myself weepy for no reason. When my friend Amy told me that her 14-year old daughter had proclaimed the movie release of Deathly Hallows, Part Two as the end of her childhood, it struck a deep chord.

I know Harry Potter lives happily ever after, so why all the emotion? I’m too young to look at Harry, Ron and Hermione as my children, but obviously am too old and too muggly to regard them as peers. While the Harry Potter series depicts a world that either doesn’t exist or we are not a part of (depending on your hopes and dreams) there are profound lessons in the experiences of these fictional characters. In a time marked by a serious lack of cooperation being displayed by political leaders, our elected officials could learn to rally together to confront a crisis. In an era where people believe what they are told without putting in the extra time to investigate, we could all learn to double-check sources and put critical thought into our positions. And in a world where friendships are maintained via text, tweets, and Facebook posts, we could all stand to remember that our personal connections make us stronger and need to be nurtured.

It is safe to say there is no book series from my own childhood that impacted me the same way Harry Potter did. As my kids grow older, I hope they will continue to reread the books, learn new lessons, and of course, memorize new spells.

hot mess

photo by Tom Lawler — this is what our air feels like to breath today

As this week’s more-than-balmy temperatures have clearly established, it’s summer. But this is not the summer of our youth. More than one million acres of the United States is covered by a so-called heat dome. Today’s heat index in DC is expected to reach 120. Do we really have to go to work and dress professionally? Shouldn’t the government give us a “heat index” day? I’d much rather have the city closed on a day like today than on a day when we get 6 inches of snow.

But I digress. While there probably isn’t much one can do to dress for the weather today, on a normal, low-90s hot and humid DC day, you can make wardrobe choices that will keep you cooler but allow you to still look professional. For example, from the time the post-winter temperatures climb into the 60s until it’s cool enough for tall boots, my legs are always bare. Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, this is a choice not only dictated by weather. Overall, I am, you might say, anti-pantyhose. I wear opaque tights in the fall/winter, but there is nothing that would ever compel me to don a pair of pantyhose any time of year. Not even Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge, and ridiculously outdated royal protocol are likely to change my mind.

Royal fashion aside, if you are going to reveal bare legs this summer, I’d like to offer some seasonal rules to live by:

1. If you reject leg coverage for the office, your skirt length better be long enough and the material should be work appropriate. I’m not a prude. I’m fun and adventurous when it comes to my wardrobe. But don’t wear a skirt-length that better belongs in a nightclub or at the beach. No one should look like a skin-tern.

2. If you are a coverage “tween” and opt for Spanx, just a warning that we should not be able to see the signs of said underpinnings when you are sitting down with your legs crossed.

3. If you use self-tanner at least apply it correctly. One guy friend of mine reported seeing a woman on the metro recently who had only applied self-tanner to the bottom half of her legs. Personally, I reject self-tanners. I hate the smell. I hate the color. But if you must self-tan, at least do the whole leg.

I understand that some stuffy offices might not allow you to skip hose. If this is the case for you, I only ask that you please don’t wear heavy black tights on a 98-degree day. Seriously, Kaitlan witnessed a woman doing just that the other day. And today, Holly saw a woman wearing long black leggings. Pants are always a better (and breezier) option.

And ladies, be thankful that you don’t have to wear a so-called “lightweight wool” navy blue suit with your shirt buttoned snugly around the neck and a tie wrapped around for good measure. This is one area where we have one up on the boys.

summer in the city

I suck at summer. It is most definitely my least favorite season. First of all, who can expect to be presentable when faced with heat indexes of 116 degrees? If I wanted to live in India, I would move there. Secondly, maybe this is exclusive to DC and people who work with Congress, but summers are always the busiest time of year. So not only do you have to run from meeting to meeting, dressed professionally, but you have to do it in weather that puts even the heartiest of stock in jeopardy of swooning.

Granted, this three-day (maybe four, meteorologists are now saying) heat wave is not the norm, but how long before it will be? I love how health experts warn us to stay hydrated, keep electrolytes up, and most importantly, avoid caffeine and alcohol in this weather. Are you kidding me? I need the caffeine to keep the engine running if I am going to be forced to live as though I have a hot steaming washcloth wrapped around me for the next four days, and I have not yet encountered alcohol-free Chardonnay. Caffeine and alcohol will make these dog days tolerable.

I dream thoughts of fall (tall boots, cashmere, gloves, scarves) but also long for an ocean breeze or perhaps a chilly New England night that calls for a sweater. A down-and-back business trip to Portsmouth, NH on Sunday and Monday, where the forecast calls for a very manageable high of 75 degrees, seems too good to be true.

On the positive side, this morning marked the first time in seven months that I did not look with envy at a (crazy) person I saw out on a morning run.

glorious pasta

I have been slightly obsessed of late with the idea of making fresh pasta. I’m sure that those who know I like to cook are surprised to learn that I do not regularly crank out my own fresh noodles. I have to admit to having been slightly scarred by my first attempt, more than 15 years ago, when my roommate Cathy and I decided to make fresh pasta for her boyfriend-now-husband and my boyfriend-of-the-month. Did I jinx our attempt by buying fresh pasta as backup? Or maybe we relied too much on the fact that Cathy (née Licata) is Italian-American. Aren’t Italians born with the ability to effortlessly make pasta? Okay, her pasta maker didn’t come with directions. We could figure it out, right?

Wrong.

Fast forward to the present day. For the better part of six months, I have been watching the pasta making class schedule at Hill’s Kitchen, but every time a class was offered, I either had the kids or a can’t-get-out-of work event. It turns out my friend Adrienne bought spaces in the class for her boyfriend for Valentine’s Day (too cute, I know) and after taking the class themselves, they very graciously offered to impart their new found knowledge on me. All I had to do was bring the wine.

I don’t think I have ever been so intimated by a bowl of flour, salt and eggs. I have kneaded many a loaf of bread in my day, and I always make my own pizza dough. But I admit to being intimated by these simple ingredients and what I was expected to produce out of them. Luckily, Adrienne was a patient teacher, so I followed her lead with my own well of flour and eggs. After we let our pasta dough rest (during which time we moved on from sparkling wine to chardonnay) on came the part that I most dreaded: turning the dough into long strands of edible glory.

By the time I had watched Adrienne’s tutorial with the pasta maker and took my first turn running the dough through it, I was hooked. Then I tasted the fruit of our labor (served simply with olive oil, freshly grated parmesan and fresh basil) and I knew what my next kitchen toy would be.

This morning, on a whim, a craigslist search yielded what I thought I might find: a couple looking to off-load their pasta maker, new in the box, a duplicate wedding gift they never got around to exchanging. It now sits in my kitchen, next to my already dogeared copy of “The Glorious Pasta of Italy” by local food writer Domenica Marchetti, whom I had the pleasure to meet in person at a recent book signing of said book.

As for dinner tonight, Adrienne was kind enough to send me home with extra pasta. My only struggle is what sauce to make.

I’m officially reunited with my kitchen.

doctor, doctor

It turns out, my doctor knows something about his specialty. A few weeks ago, I had an appointment with him. (I know, I have been holding out on all of you who love the doctor stories.) In advance of this scheduled visit, I prepared a list of all the physical activities I was going to get his clearance to do, as well as tactics for how to get him to say yes. I figured that between my lobbying skills, eyelash batting ability, and very tender emotional state (read: tendency to cry at the drop of a hat) I would walk away getting what I want. Which is essentially to exercise again.

After all the “hi, how you feeling, what is your pain level today on a scale of 1-10?” stuff was out of the way, I went down my list.

Me: Can I take spin classes?

Doctor: No.

Me: Can I do the ballet barre class I was doing before the procedure?

Doctor: No.

Me: Can I swim?

Doctor: No freestyle. No butterfly. And be careful with breaststroke too. Modify it to look more like side-stroke.

Me: Pilates?

Doctor: If you have the instructor call your physical therapist and get a briefing on your procedure and what you can and cannot do, then you can take Pilates.

At this point, my eyes swelled with tears, as if on demand. This menu of options is not exactly going to get me back into all the nice clothes hanging in my closet waiting for the return of my pre-Beatrix figure. But he was not swayed.

Me (batting eyelashes): But doctor…

Doctor: Listen, I gave you Pilates and swimming…

Me: I don’t consider your description of swimming to fit in my definition of real exercise.

Doctor: I don’t want you putting too much pressure on your back and swimming can do just that. And I feel like if I leave an appointment with you having given you less than 50% of what you want, then I have won.

Well this morning, I went to the pool for the first time. There were a few other swimmers. I sized up the competition. I planned on swimming for 30 minutes. I made it for 20. I did manage to “beat” those swimming in adjacent lanes (not that they knew they were racing) and I did not modify my breaststroke. I tried one lap of freestyle, and it was, I hate to admit, uncomfortable.

I guess on this point he wins. But I am going to redouble my efforts for the rematch.

shoe drama, act II

This beautiful shoe not only looked horrible in high gloss Payless, it also was very sad in black. And honestly, I have a gazillion pairs of black shoes, but I only had one pair that is this classic camel color. So I came back from my trip to California determined to seek a refund for the price of my shoes. Well, after five trips to the Cobbler’s Bench at Union Station, the owner finally showed his face. (Note: four of those trips the staff told me that the owner asked me to come back the next day at a certain hour, which makes the no-show-y-ness all the more egregious.) I now have in my wallet a very suspect looking check, which I am less than 50% sure is going to clear tomorrow when I take it to the bank. There could be a third act yet.

something blue

It has been awhile since anyone has asked me for style advice. Maybe because lately, I have been moving at such a frenetic pace that no one dares to talk to me. Or maybe it is because with my current wardrobe limitations, I wear the same outfits week after week. Whatever the reason, the drought ended Friday when Kaitlan asked me to help her style “the top half” of the Lilly Pulitzer Blossom Dress, which she plans to wear on Saturday to a tea her best friends are throwing for her to celebrate her recent engagement. According to Kaitlan, the brightness of the colors, combined with the strapless cut of the dress and her porcelain complexion, demands some sort of upper body accessory.
I am loathe to recommend a scarf, and given that our temperatures are creeping into the 90s, a sweater may not be appropriate either, though the Lilly Velma Shrug looks like it was made for this dress (if you don’t mind the matchy-matchness dressing in HTT Lilly). But in my opinion, the right necklace is the perfect solution.
Again with the disclaimer that I haven’t seen the dress or the David Aubrey Blue Beaded Necklace in person (so judge for yourself, Kaitlan, as to whether they are complimentary shades) my goal here was to pick an understated color from the dress (not easy to do with a Lilly pattern) and try to draw it out with a color that is in the same family but a shade or two darker. After all, I don’t want her to look like a confectionery dessert at her own party.

Cheverly Valley PTA

In my weakened state of mind this week (see previous post) my friend Kate made an appeal to me: would I run for secretary of the PTA.

Now, Jack finished 3rd grade this week and has been at Hoyer Montessori for five years and do you know how many PTA meetings I have attended? A sum total of one. And that one meeting had an agenda item that I had fought with some other parents to have included. In fact, This said group of parents came over to my house afterwards for drinks. I have consistently been a member of our PTA, just not a particularly active one. Not that I haven’t wanted to be. If I recall correctly, the last school year, I was traveling a lot for work, and it seemed my trips always coincided on the days the monthly PTA meetings were held. This year, the PTA just wasn’t on my radar.

But next year, I am all in. And not just because I know it’s going to irritate our condescending principal who doesn’t know how to deal little boys, in particular when little boys do little boy things like talk loudly or sing potty songs. Come to think of it, she doesn’t know how to deal with parents either, in particular ones who do parental things like question what sort of disciplinary action she is going to take against the school bully. She isn’t great at relating to the teachers either. Or students. But I am not doing this just to be a thorn in her side.

And I am not just doing it because my friend Rachel is running for VP and being on the board with her will give us a chance to spend some quality time discussing (read: mocking) the things that amuse us. Nor did I agree to put my name on the ballot because I have nursed any long-time desire to seek (or tweet from) elected office.

I agreed to get engaged because I am fortunate enough that my kids are thriving in a public Montessori school, located one block from our house. In an otherwise over-subscribed school district, they were each in classes this year with 18 other students. In our small school community, the parents know the teachers. We know each other. I laugh when I get the pre-recorded phone call from PGCPS to alert me to the fact that one of my sons missed school on a day he was home sick with me. If Jack or Colin ever took it upon themselves to skip school, I’m sure I would hear it from a live voice long before I heard it from a recording.

As secretary of the PTA, I will keep diligent and accurate minutes of each meeting. I will help steer the agenda in a direction that I think will benefit the school. I will certainly still invite parents to my house over for drinks after a tough meeting. Or a successful meeting. I don’t otherwise have a platform or a motive unless you count the two super-smart little boys who call me mommy.