John, home at last, brought me a wildly furry stuffed orangutan from Chicago which fascinates Keiko. She keeps sneaking up on it and knocking it over to see if it will get up and play. This is mildly annoying because it's sitting on top of my monitor, and sometimes it gets knocked down onto the keyboard, after which there is much shouting and flinging of stuffed orangutans at fleeing cats. Natasha gives it baleful looks, and Dixie just ignores it until it's flung. Then she heaves herself to her feet and goes outside.
Since the weather is delightfully warm and mild this Labor Day weekend, I have left the windows and doors open so the pets can ooze in and out at will. Myself, I tend to lie on the flimsy chaise lounge and sip Diet Coke while thumbing through my collection of catalogs from Eddie Bauer, Nordstrom, Coldwater Creek, and Land's End. I'm experiencing an urge to wear plaid so it must be September. I'm finding myself thinking back to the 60's, and the big, fat Sear's catalog we used to choose our school clothes from. I would spend hours looking through it plotting my fall wardrobe. Of course, the clothes that looked so smart and pretty on the slim models made me look no different than I ever looked, but I never made the connection. My eye has always been able to override reality. This is possibly why I can't quite get the hang of photography; I have to work really hard at seeing what's actually there instead of what I want to see.
What I see in the catalogs is cheering. I'm sick of the revisited 70's stuff, especially the nasty colors, ugly stripes, and bellbottoms. Frankly, I don't understand why no one ever revives the great looks of the 20's and 30's, but that's just me. I'm very happy to see slimmer pantlegs, cropped jackets, and tunic sweaters again in earth tones instead of jangly primary colors or funky neon lime and hot pink. The only thing I don't quite warm to yet is the predominance of grey for this coming winter. Every other year the fashion industry announces some dark color is "the new black." Get outta here. Black cannot be replaced as the essential fashion basic. On the other hand, I look fabulous in light grey and heather grey, so I'll just hunt around for the shades I like and avoid all the dark, schoolmarmish wool suits.
I stopped by Nordstrom's this week to pick up some pants I'd had hemmed, and went upstairs to see the new Encore women's department. It had lots of great clothes, if a little too many dark grey suits for my taste. I tried on a gorgeous wheat-colored bouclé shortsleeved sweater. The minute I put it on I felt as though I knew how to play bridge. It would go perfectly with good pearls, tailored pants, and expensive shoes, and coincidentally turn me into my mother. I bought it anyway. I allowed reality to override my eyes which had tried to convince me it wasn't my style when I saw the sweater on a hanger. It looks great on me, and a little foray into a more sophisticated style won't kill me. Being stylish is fun.
It also seems to have an effect on my clients. On Friday, two women complimented me on my outfit, and a third took my advice on vacations in Europe because I looked like someone who stayed at the best hotels. (That would be my boss; I stay at funky pensiones when I'm in Europe and save my money for souvenirs.) Mr. Westeng brought me flowers again after I fixed his airline ticket for him. Northwest's strike ruined his vacation plans but they were flexible about his options so I got him what he wanted. He was so grateful for my help that he gave me a hug, too.
I'm thinking it was the sweater. He just wanted to find out what bouclé was.
