Crimes Against Fashion

Blue nail polish? Not for me.

“Why not?” a gal who was young enough to be my daughter asked.

“Well, I’d wear it if I were your age,” I told the twentysomething. “But at this point in my life, I prefer a classic red nail.”

As the conversation continued, I admitted to having worn shades of chocolate brown as well as metallic jade green nail polish back in the day. This led to a larger discussion about fashion as I recalled some of the crimes against fashion I was guilty of committing when I was her age – or younger.

Two words: shoulder pads. In my defense, it was the 1980’s and the TV show Dynasty had convinced every woman in America that it was not only okay, but necessary, to look like Ron Gronkowski if you wanted to stay on-trend.

Two more words: Leg warmers. Yes, I wore them. And thought they were cool. Blame the movie Flashdance for that one. I hear they’re making a comeback. Why, I don’t know.

And finally, I have to go way back for this one – polyester bell bottoms. I’m embarrassed to admit I wore those cringe-worthy things with my platform shoes. Oh yes. Big, clunky, wedged platforms. I was in junior high school, it was the height of the Glam Rock era, and I was going for a certain look. Which I achieved with the help of Mary Quant cosmetics and that metallic green nail polish.

These days, I try to use my common sense when I’m debating a fashion choice.

I whisper to myself: WWAD – what would Audrey do?

Audrey Hepburn, that is.

Girl Talk

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We all have our products that we love. My beauty arsenal consists of foundation, blushers and concealers, eye shadow and pencils, lipsticks and mascaras. I’ve got a stash of lotions and potions, brushes, and of course, my all-time favorite beauty product, nail polish. Then there are the shampoos and conditioners, sprays and gels, any and everything to make my hair straighter and shinier.

In a case of “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” my mother is the same way. In fact, I’d wager that nearly all women – whether they be fashionistas or all-natural types – have a few faves they absolutely need for survival, even if they found themselves stranded on a desert island. And they’d be heart-broken if said item, or items, were suddenly discontinued.

Just last week, my mother experienced her latest retail dilemma. “It’s happened again,” she solemnly announced, “I’m the kiss of death.”

“What’s wrong?” I was almost too afraid to ask.

“Everything I like gets discontinued…”

This time, it was the demise of her favorite liquid foundation.

“I’m going from store to store trying to get the last of the “pure beige # 2,” she sadly reported.

That’s what we do when something gets taken off the shelves – we stockpile whatever we can get our hands on, hoping it will last until we find a suitable replacement.

For me, it’s always about nail polish. When OPI discontinued their rich red shade “vodka & caviar,” I hit every beauty supply store in a twenty-mile radius and snagged a half-dozen bottles that I stored in my fridge to preserve their longevity. I only have one left.

This retail tragedy happens in the supermarket as well. I lost my favorite salad dressing and my dear friend her favorite yogurt. How many times do we see the dreaded phrase “new and improved” when there was nothing wrong with the original? I ask you: Why can’t things just stay the same?

Best of Boston

The Staycation Vacation

Here in Boston, tourists abound. I regularly see them taking pictures in the Public Garden, walking the Freedom Trail, milling around Faneuil Hall. Beyond the city limits, they visit historic Plymouth and Salem, scatter all along Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard, and Nantucket. Sometimes I see them struggling along our cobblestone streets with their luggage, but mostly they look as if they’re having a good time.

At the risk of sounding like “Trip Advisor,” Boston’s a great vacation destination with its rich architecture, abundant historical sites and museums – not to mention great seafood. In fact, not long ago when friends visited for the weekend, we went on a harbor cruise and took a tour of Fenway Park. And of course, we ate delish Italian cuisine in the North End.

My vacation is coming up and, this time around, I won’t be getting out of Dodge, but I’ll surely dodge the usual travel hassles, lost luggage, and second-rate hotels. I also won’t end up more exhausted than when I started, and I won’t spend a fortune doing it. Call me crazy, but I’m taking a staycation. I’ll sleep decadently late, go to the Museum of Fine Arts, meet a friend for lunch, stroll through the Copley Square Farmer’s Market, get pampered at my favorite Newbury Street day spa, and spend the day at Singing Sand Beach.

No matter where you live, a staycation could be the ideal way to spend your leisure time. I’ll bet there are some places you’ve been meaning to go – a day trip, perhaps – or a show you want to see. Maybe go hiking or biking, or try that restaurant you’ve heard so much about but haven’t gotten the chance to try.

Remember, like Dorothy once said, “There’s no place like home…”

Girl Talk

Hot Mama

My grandmother’s generation did not speak of it. My mother’s generation at least began the conversation. My generation has no filter. We are hot mamas.

That’s right – we’re is-it-hot-in-here-or-is-it-just-me, somebody-get-me-a-fan, let-me-stick-my-head-in-the freezer-for-just-a-second, hot mamas.

This may be TMI but I, myself, am a hot mama. At work, my officemate wears turtlenecks and fleece sweaters, while the gal down the hall prefers a blouse and blazer, then wraps herself in a pashmina. Most days, I go sleeveless as I flush and shvitz my way through one menopause-induced hot flash after another. Then at night, I pad around my apartment barefoot, wearing an oversized man’s tee-shirt, my hair up in a high ponytail, as a ceiling fan is whirling overhead so fast you can hardly see the paddles.

But don’t get me started on the nightly routine. After a shower, when it’s time to dry my thick, curly, frizzy hair, I need an 1875 watt blow dryer before step two, the flat iron, set at 400 degrees. By the time my hair is dried and set, the rest of me is wringing wet. So it’s back in the shower wearing a silly floral shower cap to protect my freshly straightened hair.

I remember once, years ago, asking my mother how she felt when a hot flash hit and she said very calmly, “You feel as if your head’s about to come popping off.” Do you suppose that the genteel southern belles who had “a case of the vapours” were really just trying to describe their hot flashes?

What’s the up-side to all of this? For one thing, there’s fashion. As long as women have hot flashes, I predict, twin sets will never go out of style. You know, take the cardi off, put the cardi back on, take the cardi off… There’s no need to slather on an expensive facial cream to have a youthful dewy glow. The flop-sweats will keep your face and neck hydrated while the flushing adds some color to your cheeks. And finally, with all that sweating, there’s no way you can be retaining water, so you’ll surely be down a pound or two when you step on the scale.

Life Lessons

Table for One

You’re on your own. It’s late, you’re out, and you haven’t eaten dinner. You’re starvin’ like Marvin. What do you do?

A- Go home and eat a bowl of cereal, which is fine for breakfast but…remember you are very, very hungry.

B- Get take-out which will become cold and considerably less appealing by the time you sit down to eat it.

C- Resort to the fast food drive-thru window where you’ll be handed a paper bag full of calories, but lacking in nutrition.

D- Choose a respectable restaurant and have a proper meal.

My choice is D. I want a place setting, a menu, and some good food. Besides, dining alone is nothing to be ashamed of. Sure, it requires a certain confidence. But experience has taught me that this skill can be acquired.

In my twenties, I ate alone at the burger joints and coffee shops where nearly everyone eats alone. Anything beyond that was outside my comfort zone. By thirty, I’d mastered the art of reading a book or magazine while dining alone in upscale eateries. Nowadays, a smart phone and earbuds provide company at a table for one. But I no longer need props when eating out alone.

Recently, I went to one of my favorite restaurants on an uncharacteristically slow night. There were only a handful of people at the bar, and several tables remained empty. As I sat at the bar waiting for my meal to arrive, I chatted with the bartender, another single woman like myself.

What was her take on a table for one? Eating alone is not an urban phenomenon – the suburbanites do it too. Many more women eat alone than do men. She observed that men appear more self-conscious about being without a partner. From her vantage point behind the bar, she could tell that most people don’t even notice when someone is dining alone. It’s just not a big deal. Finally, she admitted that she enjoys eating alone because she finds it relaxing. I had to agree.

Zitella's Favorite Recipes

Cook Out Calamity

“I’ll gain ten pounds over the 4^th of July weekend,” my friend lamented. “Everyone thinks the five weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve are the toughest time of the year to maintain your weight – but it’s the fifteen weekends between Memorial Day and Labor Day that’ll get you. I’m in the middle of one long cook out calamity!”

She made me hungry as she described what she’d eaten at the backyard party she’d most recently attended.

“From the minute I got there, I was like a Hoover vacuum cleaner,” she confessed. “A hot dog – three, four bites tops, and it was gone. Ribs dripping with sugary barbecue sauce. Fried chicken cooked to crispy perfection. The potato salad and the macaroni salad – carbs swimming in mayonnaise. And don’t get me started on the desserts…”

When I weighed all this (no pun intended) against Turkey Day (which is really only one meal), a few holiday parties where you stand with a flute of champagne in one hand as you nibble on tiny hors d’oeuvres, and a tin of homemade Christmas cookies it takes you a good two weeks to polish off, I’ll admit, she had a point.

Still, this wasn’t a calamity.

There was an easy solution to her dilemma. I offered her a simple, healthy, delish summer salad that looks pretty and transports well. The perfect dish to bring to a cook out.

Cold Veggie Salad

Life Lessons

My Dad – the Ad Man

Back in the day, my father was a G-rated version of Don Draper – one of the original “ad men” of the 1960’s. For most of his career, he worked in the advertising department at NBC. As a child, I didn’t understand what he did, but I surmised it was important because he worked in Rockefeller Center and had a view of the skating rink from his office windows.

Years later, I understood just what his job entailed. His department was responsible for all the print advertising for the network. The graphic artists and copywriters created ads and he produced them, by working closely with engravers and typesetters. He then bought space in the various newspapers and magazines that would run the ads. Faced with the pressure of constant deadlines, he often schmoozed and negotiated with the printers, all the while cajoling the artists to get them to turn their work in on time. My father worked long hours. And he suffered from migraines.

My father’s immigrant father owned a small, independent, neighborhood fruit and vegetable store in Queens, New York. My grandfather spent his life lifting and carrying crates. Despite how tired my father must have been from his long work week at NBC, he sometimes helped out at the family store on Saturdays, and I doubt he and my grandfather ever talked to each other about work. I’m not sure if my grandfather understood the power of the media or saw the work my father did as meaningful.

When my father retired, he traded in his suit and briefcase for a set of golf clubs. These days, he goes out to breakfast with the ROMEOS (Retired Old Men Eating Out), wearing the Life is Good baseball cap I gave him a few years ago. He thought the slogan was a reference to his retirement. But it was also meant to acknowledge how hard he worked to give our family a good life.

Thank you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Pop Culture

The Coffee Culture

On an early morning train bound for DC, I made my way to the café car.

“How’s the coffee?” I tentatively asked the guy behind the counter.

“It’s hot, brown, and there’s plenty of it,” he replied with a hint of irony.

Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I smiled because his reference to the movie City Slickers wasn’t lost on me.

“I’ll have a small one.”

“You’ll be back for more,” he warned.

How’d he know I come from a family of java junkies? That my dad’s addicted to his Keurig? That my grandmother always started her day with a pot of espresso? She’d say it wasn’t strong enough unless the spoon stood up by itself. As for me, I started drinking coffee for medicinal purposes. The caffeine was my first line of defense when a migraine hit. Now, of course, I’m hooked.

As I drank what was, at best, a serviceable cup of joe, I recalled the luncheonettes of the forties and fifties where patrons sat at a counter with a proper cup and saucer and a piece of pie, and the smoked filled coffee houses of the sixties where young people congregated to talk politics and listen to folk music. When did cars start coming equipped with cup holders so commuters could drive-through their favorite coffee chain in the morning on their way to work? Today, teenagers are more apt to hang out at Starbucks than to try and get into a bar and, for most of us, “let’s meet for drinks” has been replaced by the “coffee date.”

The coffee culture is not only thriving – it’s taken over. Did our 24/7 mentality cause it? Maybe it’s because caffeine is an acceptable and legal drug. Or because coffee just tastes and smells so damn good.

There are 30 coffee shops within an eight-block radius of my apartment. Seriously. I’ve counted them. And I’m not complaining. After all, it’s nice to have options. So whether you like French roast, espresso, or Turkish coffee, prefer it hot or iced, frequent one of the big chains or a small indie like Thinking Cup or Wired Puppy – coffee is a must.

Girl Talk

The Power of Shoes

I know, I know – women love shoes. It’s been over three decades and they’re still making Imelda Marcos jokes. Let’s face it, women like shoe shopping because it does not require looking in a full-length, three-panel mirror, in the harsh, critical light of the try-on room. You can gain twenty pounds, and your shoe size won’t change. Shoes are a sure thing.

Contrary to popular belief, shoes are not a mere accessory, like the common scarf or the utilitarian purse because shoes transcend. Like DNA, shoes are the building block of the whole wardrobe – even more so than the dress – because shoes possess a certain power that only some women understand, and nearly all men fall prey to, at one time or another. Shoes send subliminal messages. What does a brown loafer say? A sensible, low-heeled navy pump? A red pump with stiletto heels?

There’s more to a shoe than its toe, body, or heel. Like just about everything in this world – it’s all in the details. Straps matter. And any shoe that shows off the toes (and a fresh pedicure) commands a certain amount of respect. Then there’s toe cleavage, an amazing phenomenon that occurs when the shoe is low-cut enough to reveal the magical little spot where the toes emerge from the body of the foot. It is a smart woman, indeed, who speaks to a man with her shoes. And it’s a lucky man who listens.

I maintain that shoes (scarpe in Italian) are works of art, and should be treated as such. Just as a dedicated art collector hunts for that obscure masterpiece, a gal on a shoe shopping expedition must seek out shoes that are truly unique, and therefore foot-noteworthy.

Here’s a thought: Could it be that my deep understanding and appreciation of shoes has anything to do with the fact that my ancestors all came from a country that’s shaped exactly like a boot?

Girl Talk

Traveling In Style

Luggage is not what it used to be. Take my mother’s vintage suitcases, purchased in the late 1950’s as her honeymoon luggage. Gorgeous. As a child, I pretended to be a Hollywood starlet, as I played with her train case and the round circle suitcase that were sized perfectly for me. I even remember the whimsical keys…

It’s nearly impossible to find that kind of luxe luggage nowadays, and with the travel regulations placed on the quantity and size of bags, we’ve been forced to give up style for conformity. Since abandoning the fantasy of traveling with chic luggage, as I prepared for a business trip, I shifted all my attention to the task of packing.

Traveling with a compact carry-on means that every article of clothing must count. I ask you: how could a gal bring all the right clothes, not to mention accessories, for a three-day conference and semi-formal dinner, stuffed into only one bag?

That’s when I channeled Alex, the associate fashion editor at the popular women’s magazine where I worked right after college. He was cute and funny and had impeccable taste. It was like having my own personal Tim Gunn for a friend and work buddy. He once did a brilliant feature on how to pack for a trip. Choose one color, he advised. Create your own little “collection” so you can mix and match everything. Bring two pairs of shoes – a black and a neutral– and one smart purse. Use your accessories for a pop of color. The guy was a genius!

Much deliberation took place in front of my one-and-only closet. Then it hit me. Blue. Midnight blue, to be more precise. Accessories? Faux pearls could easily be slipped into a zip lock bag. Add a couple of scarves – one turquoise and one radiant orchard – after all, they weigh nothing. And I was good to go.

My utilitarian luggage? Not so chic. My travel wardrobe? I think Alex would approve.

Dolce Zitella

written by Christine Colacino

Crimes Against Fashion

Discontinued

The Staycation Vacation

Hot Mama

Table for One

Cook Out Calamity

My Dad – the Ad Man

The Coffee Culture

The Power of Shoes

Traveling In Style