Quite the Duds

I am trying to fathom how anyone could spend $150,000 on clothes. In today’s papers Sarah Palin denied that amount, and I hope she’s right, because I just cannot wrap my mind around such a staggering number.

It makes me sick that citizens will pony up huge donations to pay for a candidate’s clothes, or, after an election, to replace the rug in the Oval Office ($30,000-50,000--replaced in EVERY new administration, Republican or Democrat), but would these same people donate as much to address world hunger or eradicate malaria??

Today I went to Wal-Mart to stock up on necessities and I actually found some adorable clothes there. Okay, I know I should consider quality over price, but these were semi-trendy clothes, and I’ll feel a lot better next season when today’s baby doll styles are out if I spent $50 rather than $1500 on them. BTW, is that whole sweatshop thing resolved, or do I need to stop buying clothes at Wal-Mart?

I’m sure Sarah Palin has a Wal-Mart in Wasilla, so if she’s reading this, I’d like to give her an idea of what I got for my $226 today: two birthday gifts, jumbo TP and paper towels, 3 bras, 3 sweaters, one trendy blazer, 5 loaves of bread, English muffins, 8 yogurts, 5 boxes of cereal, hair clips (yep, banana clips), 4 bottles of Acai juice, laundry detergent, canned food, snacks, turkey, cleaning supplies, and a few other items I can’t identify from the receipt but that seemed really important when I was there.

Now I’m not saying that Sarah Palin and other politicians must shop at Wal-Mart, Target, and thrift shops like I do, but, hello, how about giving Ann Taylor or J. Crew a try?

Hair Police

Molly is filled with disdain about my hair and my clothes. I really didn’t think this would start at age 7. Last week she said, “Mom, I really don’t think the “classic” ponytail is working for you” (her air quotes). I wanted to tell her I don’t feel the need to take hair advice from someone who wears her headbands in the middle of her forehead a la Xanadu or the Quacker lady of infomercial fame. Alas, I am the grown-up, so I refrained.

When we packed for the beach she asked if I was taking my hairdryer and flat iron. When I told her I was, I wanted to add my childhood refrain, “I’m doing it ‘cause I want to, not because you told me to!” As the grown-up, I kept my mouth shut. The one night I did forgo the ponytail to wear my hair down, she looked me up and down and said, “Way to go baby mama, loooooking good!” as if I had groomed myself solely for her pleasure.

It’s funny how fresh childhood seems, so I know why she feels the way she does, and I know it’s probably natural, but childhood is now far enough away for me to realize my mother was not the idiot I thought she was.

I think about the mortification of buying bras. At first my mom could just bring home training bras for my sister and me with no need to try anything on. I’m not sure what we were training for, but these bras had little purpose except to loosely cover up our “New Beginnings” as I had affectionately named the bee stings on our chests.

A few short months later, the New Beginnings needed new digs, so we had to go on a bra shopping expedition. My mother, sister and I crowded into a department store dressing room. As we tried on bras, my mother said embarrassing things such as “lean over and scoop” or “make sure you’ve wiggled down into it” as she advised us. Ugh. My sister and I could have died.

The worst was when she said in what we believed was an extraordinarily loud voice, “Don’t worry, they just look that way because you’re a little excited.” We wanted to crawl out of the stall, but of course if we did, people would be able to identify us, so we had to be satisfied just hissing at our mother to be quiet and stop embarrassing us.

Later, after my mom’s death at 46, I would cringe when I heard teenagers unleash vitriol at their moms at the mall. I wanted to scream at the girls to stop wasting their precious time together. I wanted to tell the moms to hang in there. That their daughters’ criticism was more about the daughters and the hell that is adolescence and the teenage years, than about their mothers. That, God willing, the time would come that these daughters would appreciate them again.

I know I could play the guilt card on Molly. “Don’t treat me this way, I could drop dead in 8 years and then you’ll really feel bad,” but I don’t. I know that her disdain is primarily developmental, and unless she’s being overtly disrespectful, I know I’ll probably bite my tongue and ride out her unsolicited fashion advice for the next 10-12 years or so. After all, I AM the grown-up. The frizzy haired, pony-tailed, gray-streaked grown-up who still misses her mom.