February 2011
I'm not breaking the rules, I'm just testing their elasticity.
You can't legislate taste. Darn it.
I am reminded of this fact when I drive past some of the cookie cutter subdivisions. Tear down an older house, divide the property and slap together two (or three) cracker boxes. Ugh. Bad enough where we are; when I went out to California a decade or two ago, Jackie Smith showed me a number of spots where they had knocked down a one story cottage and put up some truly ugly three story houses. They were close enough that you could reach out of your window and shake hands with the neighbor reaching out of theirs. Almost as bad as some of the shared wall brownstones in New York. There's such a thing as being too close and cozy with your neighbors.
Clothes are definitely a matter of taste, and some people have all their taste in their mouth.
When she turned 13, Charlie got a slew of birthday gifts, from gift cards to books to a bolt of purple velvet to vintage record albums to a basket of British cookies and candies—and a box of 'hip' tops and leggings in very questionable taste.
"Perfect for Halloween," Lily muttered as we dished up cake in the kitchen.
"Clown? Or hooker?" I shot back. She shuddered just a little.
Okay, I've seen worse—but these choice bits belong on someone 23 (or 33), trolling the local bar, not 13 and trolling the local ice cream parlor. I wondered how such a sweet girl (and Missy, a friend from school, is one of the sweetest kids you could ever meet) had such atrocious taste in clothing—then her mother showed up to pick her up from the party. Question answered. In spades.
And Charlie is kind hearted to a fault. She graciously accepts any and all gifts—and uses them. Things don't get consigned to the attic (something I've been known to do—and so have Ducky, Ev, Lily and even Mother). In her collection of historical garb, Charlie managed to find an ankle length skirt that worked well with one of the tops and planned to wear it to school on Monday. Well… the colors matched, and the demure length mitigated some of the questionable taste of the top, anyway. Not all, but at least some.
Lexi and I had stayed the night at Lily and Ev's and, as a result, were witness to the discussion of what is and is not appropriate for school. Ev insisted (and I silently agreed) that slashed sleeves from collar to cuffs were a close enough cousin to forbidden-by-dress-code spaghetti straps. Charlie pointed out that this outfit was quite tame compared to most of her schoolmates. Ev started in with the 'if all of your friends jumped off a bridge' argument, but Charlie's barely repressed amusement stopped her. She threw up her hands. "Fine! If you get sent home, you get to schlep your happy little ass home and back to school. Your Mom and I aren't going to pick you up and don't even try wheedling Aunt Sandy."
"C'est la vie," Charlie said mildly and grabbed her rolling cart of school crap. I wisely didn't point out the side slashes from mid rib cage to hem; no sense in prolonging the squabble. (Frankly, in my opinion, there wasn't enough fabric to call it a top. Coaster, maybe.)
We piled into Ev's wagon and zipped over to Lincoln High. (Ev was dropping me off at Dent Busters to pick up my van. I had been the victim of a hit and run and the side door panel was bent off track—not to mention the huge dent. I had been using the sedan, but Ducky had a doctor's appointment Monday so we just got creative with the transportation gyrations.)
As we pulled up in the drop off circle, a gaggle of students dragged their way through the crosswalk. I could sense Ev staring-but-trying-not-to-stare as hard as I was. The parade had some interesting participants:
A tall (Abby height), gangly redhead wearing skintight leggings tight enough to show off every hair follicle and a cutoff top short enough to count ribs (mind you, this is February in DC);
Another young gal in a backless and sidless halter dress with 6" side slits (and the skirt was barely 12" long) (I was freezing looking at her);
An unkempt lad trying desperately to grow a moustache and looking like he had hot cocoa foam on his upper lip, who was clad in jeans almost all the way off his butt and a shirt with more tears and holes than I could count (I managed to not yell out, "Hey, droopy drawers!");
A theatrical young lady with long, flowing black hair in a long, flowing gown in variegated black and red chiffon. More appropriate for the prom—maybe—it would be lovely over a full length under dress of satin. Too bad it was over a bra and panties that even I could see from thirty feet away.
Not to mention the spikes, piercings and tattoos (so much for age restriction) that would give strong hearts nightmares for months.
Charlie tumbled from the car, leaned in to give us smooches and tore up the walkway.
Ev watched the scraggly group as the finished crossing, shaking her head slowly. "In comparison… Charlie looks like a nun."
I held out a hand and she shook it automatically. "Welcome to the old fogey club."
As Ev pulled away from the curb, Lexi chirped from the back seat: "Do we get cwub jackets?"