Moby Dress — The Hunt For The Elusive White

My teenage daughter will graduate from high school one month from today. 

One. Month. From. Today.

(Can you tell that I'm freaking out?)

Between now and then, we have to negotiate Senior Project, Senior Prom, the Senior White Water Rafting Trip, Senior Banquet, Senior Awards, and then, finally, Graduation. We need to get her prom dress altered (temporarily shortened; it's  a loaner from dear family friends who are taller than my child). We need to schedule hair and nail and miscellaneous other appointments. We need to buy, borrow or in some other way secure the appropriate bling.

And, apparently, we need to find a white dress.

I questioned this at first. The "refrigerator letter" we received from the school (which was reinforced via email, snail-mail and a "mandatory meeting") encouraged girls to wear "dresses or skirts." Being a silk pants gal myself, this ruffled me a bit. Regardless, it didn't specify color — and that's saying something given that it was essentially five pages of very specific specifics. 

"Why white?" I asked, picturing all of the hardly ever or even never-worn dresses in her closet.

"Duh," she replied. "That's what graduation dresses are. White."

Okay, then.

You've probably already guessed that not one of the aforementioned hardly ever or even never-worn dresses in her closet is white. 

Of course not.

So, suddenly, we are on yet another mother-daughter quest. I readily agreed to this one, though, because I foresee a future in which our shopping trips will be few and far between. I cleared my schedule and we set out early. The plan was to hit the closest mall, find a dress and be home in time for her to drive a younger rider to the stable for afternoon lessons.

Our first stop was Burlington Coat Factory. (My sister, a New York-based actress, always does well there for audition clothes.) It's only a couple of miles past the mall, and I figured if we struck the jackpot, we might be able to avoid the mall altogether.

Sure enough, there were tons of white dresses! We found six or eight (or maybe it was ten) and she headed to the dressing room. The dresses were all similar, sleeveless, short, with A-line or "fit and flare" skirts, cotton knit with crocheted lace overlays.

I stood outside the dressing room and waited.

"Um ... Mom?"

"How is it?" I asked.

She reluctantly stepped out. "I look like Little House on the Prairie."

Now, I don't think she's ever seen Little House on the Prairie. I know she stopped reading the series about a quarter of the way through the first book, Little House in the Big Woods, because Pa butchered a pig.

Yet, the dress assessment was dead-on.

"Next!" I told her.

Unfortunately, the next one and the next — and the next, the next and next, next, next — were equally frumpy. I couldn't decide whether they were continuing the Ingalls Wilder look or if we had moved into Sister Wives territory. All she needed was taller hair so she could be closer to God.

We abandoned ship and went to the mall.

If nothing else, we were thorough and efficient. Macy's, American Eagle, J. Crew, Forever 21, Pac Sun, Hollister, Nordstrom, even J.C. Penney ... you name it, we hunted for that elusive white dress. Alas, no go. Most of them were just as frowsy as the first set. One or two were a little less shapeless, but that meant they were too tight to move.  
So, we're doing what any self-respecting digital-age mother-daughter team would do. We're ordering white dresses online. Multiple white dresses. We'll return what doesn't work. 

But, the whole adventure made me wonder. Was this some sort of statement about young women's roles. Not virgin vs. whore so much. More like Laura Ingalls vs. Miley Cyrus. 

Neither really fit my daughter's personality.

And, I have no problem with that.

If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.     
 

Parenta Non Gratis

I remember when I was a very popular mom. I remember when my daughter said, "Please" and "Thank you," and actually seemed to enjoy my company.

I remember because that magical time was a mere 40 hours ago.

On Saturday, after my daughter's riding lesson, I took her to the mall. I bought her a cute bra, a pair of wedge sandals for a trip we're planning, a skirt, two pairs of shorts, a few tops, and a tall caramel Frappucino. For that one brief shining moment, we were more than mother-daughter. We were pals, girlfriends, BFFs.

Do I treasure these little excursions? Oh yes.

Am I bribing my tween to be nice to me? Abso-bloomin-lutely!

The rest of the weekend was unusually pleasant too. We went out for tex-mex Saturday night, met friends for brunch Sunday morning, after which, my daughter got to show off her new pony. We chilled at home, baked brownies with white chocolate chips and crushed Oreos on top, and caught up on an episode of Downton Abbey en famille.

Monday morning came (too quickly, as usual) and I still remembered our lovely weekend together. My daughter? Um ... not so much.

Her alarm went off and I could hear her grumbling. I should know better (I really really really should know better) but I couldn't resist peeking into her room. She was standing, looking somewhat stunned, in front of her dresser with puffy eyes and bed-head.

"Hi sweetie," I ventured, stepping down into her room. She glared at me, of course. But I am one fearless mother; I walked right up to her and kissed her on the top of her head.

"Ugh!" she uttered, "You kiss me too much."

Okay then. I retreated downstairs to the kitchen to make her breakfast, pack her lunch and tidy up some dishes that had been soaking overnight. I noticed that her phone had 12 app updates waiting, so I logged into the iTunes account on her behalf. About fifteen minutes later, she stumbled down.

Although we have a no-cell-phones-before-school rule, she is allowed to quickly check and make sure her friend is walking. She immediately noticed the updated apps.

"Why did you update my apps?" she demanded. "I didn't want you to!"

Okay then. I brought her the pizza bagel I had made. "Here you go," I said. Again, she gave me the glare, that affectionate look I know so well. I went to get a coat for her but stopped short.

"Aaaaaaaaaaagh!!!!!" she had screamed from the bathroom.

"What?" I came running.

"My hair!!!!!"

"What about it?"

"It doesn't work!!!!!"

"Can I help?"

"NO!!!!!" She pushed past me and headed back upstairs. Apparently, her hair would "work" better in her own bathroom — and away from me.

A few minutes later, she and the hair had returned. She grabbed her jacket, her backpack and her lunch box, and muttered, "Bye."

"Wait a minute," I advised as I caught up to her by the back door. "I need a hug." She stood stiff and still as I embraced her. For good measure, I planted one more kiss on her cheek.

"Ugh," she said. "You kiss me too much!"

I just smiled which made her turn back and lecture, "Seriously, I mean it. Something has to change around here."

Okay then. I can think of many things I'd like to see change. Our morning routine, the level of civility (or lack thereof) in our home, or maybe her attitude for a start.

But, the kisses? They're not negotiable.

Not the Target Audience

When I’m not blogging or writing movie reviews (or doing laundry or helping with homework), I run a boutique ad agency. In fact, I’ve been a copywriter and creative director for just over half my life (since September of 1984 — you can do the math). Consequently, I’m acutely aware of marketing strategy, how brands combine emotion with promotion to get us to desire and buy their products.

So, when there’s something I just don’t get (like the Twilight books or Crocs or Ke$ha), I remind myself that, “I’m not the target audience.”

One recent trip to the mall with my daughter required several repetitions of that mantra. “I’m not the target audience. I’m not the target audience.”

Like Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp children, let’s start at the very beginning.

We tend to park along the side of the mall, not in the large but always crowded lot near the food court, but toward the back near an exterior entrance to a home furnishings store called Restoration Hardware. There are benefits to this. I always find a space. I never lose my car. I like walking through aisles of overstuffed sectional sofas and imagining how they could possibly fit into my early 19^th century colonial. And, once we’re in the mall, we are only a half-dressed hop, skip and jump away from … Abercrombie.

For my tween daughter, Abercrombie is the mall’s Mecca, a holy city of to-die-for casual clothing, allegedly meant for young adults but irresistible to younger teenage-wannabes. The shop is dimly lit with floor-to-ceiling peek-a-boo shutters that create a sense of mystery, if not downright danger, as you try to hurry by on your way to Macy’s. Too late! You are seduced by Abercrombie’s siren song.

Walk in and you’re met with stunning black and white photos of superhumanly gorgeous boys and girls, all of whom look like they’ve just rolled out of bed and need a cigarette. Your pulse begins to pound like the music that’s playing several decibels too loud. The place has its own distinct odor, their signature perfume, which permeates the store, the clothes, and your car the whole way home.

We are here for jeans. Not just jeans, but “super skinny destroyed jeans.” Apparently, there is real value associated with all the extra adjectives. Plain old jeans would only cost me $68. It’s $20 extra for the super and the skinny and the destroyed. I suggest that we get the regular jeans and destroy them ourselves. It could be fun, like one of those afternoons we used to spend together painting hideous ceramics at Plaster Fun Time. My daughter smiles sweetly and brings the super skinny destroyed jeans to the register. A preternaturally pretty young man flashes his pearly whites, sweeps his blond Beiberesque bangs away from his forehead, and swipes my American Express.

We escape from Abercrombie relatively unscathed — just the jeans, not a single graphic tee or hoodie. My daughter is elated. I’m a bit bewildered, but … “I am not the target audience.”

Next, we track down the store Pink, a colorful, brightly lit shop of cotton undies, sleepwear and Betty Boop-inspired lingerie. It’s the retail equivalent of Victoria’s Secret’s flirty little sister. My daughter needs a strapless bra to wear under a sundress for an upcoming bat mitzvah. Styles change, but there are some things you can rely on. Whether you’re 13 or 48, you buy a strapless bra because you have to — not because it’s comfortable.

As we’re waiting on line to pay for the uncomfortable strapless bra, I see a display of blue sleepshirts that say “PINK” on the front of them. Another display has green hoodies that say “PINK” on the back of them. A final display offers a rainbow of bikini underpants in yellow, red, orange, purple, all of which say “PINK” across their butts. I don’t get it. Then again … “I’m not the target audience.”

Our final stop is Forever 21 (or the store that I think of as “More Ho, Less Dough”). Really, if your tween daughter is playing a prostitute in the junior high play, you can find her some pretty convincing costumes here for a lot less than I just paid for destroyed denim. My daughter needs a little jacket to wear over her sundress in the temple ($9.99 on the sale rack), a pair of flats to dance in ($15 near the register), and a gift card, which will make the bat mitzvah girl very happy and her mother … well … less so. Like me, she is “not the target audience.”

A final stop at Starbucks (one vente decaf non-fat caramel macchiato, one frappucino), and we are all set. I may not be the target audience for Abercrombie, Pink or Forever 21, but I can consume overpriced concept coffee drinks with the best of them. I am, after all, “the target audience.”

Trip to the mall: $256. An afternoon with my daughter without any arguments: priceless.