True story: I got stopped by two bike cops on my way to work yesterday morning. I was walking with my parasol. One cop did all the talking, the other hung back for atmosphere pretending to look official and occasionally chuckling.
If you read this conversation out loud I recommend you use thick French Canadian accents for the cops, not just because they were indeed French Canadian but also because it’s fun, non?
Bike Cop #1: Hey it’s not raining today you can put you’re umbrella away.
Me: It’s for the sun. It has a UVB protection liner.
Bike Cop #1: They have sunscreen for that, eh.
Me: Sunscreen gives only partial protection and I don’t want to get cancer. Maybe you should get one.
Bike Cop #1: Nobody’s gonna take me seriously with a parasol!
Me: You mean people take you seriously on the bike?
And then he doubled me on the handlebars down to the station, but alas, it isn’t against the law to be a smartass. Thank god or my entire family would be in the big house.
The cop was right about one thing; being taken seriously. I have been using my sun-brella for a couple of summers now and not a day goes by that some yukster says; “Hey! It’s not raining.” To which I reply; “You know what you have in common with skin cancer? Neither of you are funny.” One guy actually tried to get under the umbrella with me. He got an elbow to the solar plexus. Read more
A great flowchart our good friend Jess N. alerted us to. Please read carefully and share with those you love.
How did I come to care so much about clothes? According to my Mum, as early as three years old I had a definite idea about my personal style. She would carefully choose my clothes in the morning and lay them out for me, but I would come downstairs in a completely different outfit that she would have never thought to put together. She pretty much let me go at that point, realizing that some battles weren’t worth fighting. Once a week she got me into a dress, sadly it was a brown and orange Brownies uniform, but it was a dress, dammit and that’s what mattered. She had been surrounded by boys her whole life, first her brothers, then her sons, so you can’t blame her for wanting a girly-girl. Unfortunately she got me.
Being the only girl in a neighborhood of boys meant that I had no fashion role models. If that weren’t bad enough, I grew up in the Seventies, one of the god-awful worst decades for fashion. Between the swaths of poly-blends and corduroy, and the Cold War colour scheme, it’s not hard to understand why Quaaludes were the drug of choice for the era. If I saw a sorry group of kids dressed like that today I would hastily organize a telethon in their honour.
My awesome "Dukes of Hazzard" shirt made this whale cry… on the inside.
[/twocol]What came next was in some ways worse: the label craze. The Eighties ushered in an era of status icons like Polo, Nike and Esprit. One had to non-verbally communicate one’s income, because saying it out loud was tacky. However a ten inch neon Gucci symbol on your shirt was not. It’s not hard to understand why cocaine was the drug of choice for this era. My Mum refused to play the label game, “Those designers should be paying you to advertise for them.” So at the age of fourteen I got my first job so I could afford to keep up with the Joneses. But wearing designer clothes didn’t make me stylish, it made me a sheep. Thankfully, I outgrew that trend.