The Basement

Let’s meet at The Basement on Saturday.

Wanna go down to The Basement after work?

These phrases were on the lips of Bostonian women of all ages. That’s what we called it. The Basement.

I am, of course, referring to Filene’s Basement, located on two floors beneath the art deco flagship Filene’s department store and cornerstone of Boston’s Downtown Crossing.

The Basement folklore was plentiful. The Running of the Brides, so named for its resemblance to Pamplona’s Running of the Bulls, turned ordinarily polite young women into fierce competitors the moment The Basement doors opened, as they fought over designer bridal gowns offered at a fraction of their original prices. And men would actually stand in line waiting for The Basement to open on the mornings of the semi-annual men’s suit sale. But the outrageous bargains were only part of it. A trip to The Basement could cheer you up on a rainy day. It was as loud, as crowded, and as chaotic as Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The Basement was pure joy.

The three-dollar Christian Dior bras I pulled from the depths of the lingerie bins were mine for the taking. And the shoes! I thought nothing of squeezing into incredibly cheap Ferragamos and Via Spigas that were only a-half size too small. There were no dressing rooms in The Basement so I’d angle for a spot near a mirror then strip down to the Danskin leotard I’d worn under my clothes. Some women were so intent on getting a bargain that they tried on their finds right over their clothes. Others, caring nothing about modesty, were on full display in their bras and slips as they tried on a pile of potential purchases. It was divine pandemonium.

In 2007, Filene’s Basement closed its doors for good and shopping has never been quite the same. I’ll always miss the tradition and the spectacle that was The Basement.

Zitella's Favorite Recipes

Let’s Do Brunch!

Last weekend an old friend was in the city. You may have heard it was cold here in Boston. Frigid is not the right word. Neither is arctic. Try dangerously bone-chilling. In fact, meteorologists warned that frostbite could occur after only a ten-minute exposure to the absurd temperature. Needless to say, strolling through Boston’s Italian-American neighborhood, the North End, was no longer an option. Likewise, shopping on Newbury Street was out of the question. We had no choice but to chill – no pun intended – and stay in.

So I made brunch.

Brunch is, in my opinion, a highly underrated meal. Think about it: you don’t have to get up early; you get to eat bacon; and you have permission to pour some prosecco in your OJ or vodka in your tomato juice even though it’s not quite noon-time.
Call me the Queen of Brunch, but I like setting a colorful table. A vase of red tulips, burgundy water glasses, and a few Marimekko red poppy plates are a great antidote for the winter blues. A pot of strong coffee, an egg and veggie frittata, a warm fruit salad and you’ve got yourself the perfect meal for a lazy day. And then there are the orange cranberry scones…

Are your weekdays harried and stressful? Mine sure are. When the weekend comes, we need to take a break, catch up with friends and family, stop texting and start talking. What better way to do that than to stay in next weekend and make brunch?

Orange Cranberry Scone Recipe

Girl Talk, Life Lessons

Buy Yourself Jewelry

Valentine’s Day holds the promise of hearts and flowers. But some of you married gals might have the kind of husband who’s not so good at remembering these things. And what about the single girls who don’t have a boyfriend at the moment? Why should they get gypped?

My advice? Buy yourself jewelry. It’s even better than going to the day spa. I’m not suggesting you do anything crazy. No Colombian emeralds or black Tahitian pearls. You don’t need to buy the kind of loot you find in the Jewelers’ Building, with the able assistance of some older gentleman in a custom tailored suit and half glasses, who calls you “Miss” and, jeweler’s loupe at the ready, offers you a free appraisal of whatever happens to be hanging from your earlobes or dangling from your wrist that day.

A quick drive to the mall is all it takes to find something sparkly. Even better, you can sit on your sofa with a glass of Red in one hand and the remote in the other and find some pretty serious bling on the shopping channels. Or simply go on line to find your new bauble. Remember, you’re not out to find the Hope Diamond here. Just a pair of garnet studs. Or an amethyst ring.

I’ve been buying my own jewelry for a while. Some women like to travel – I’d rather buy gemstones set in precious metals. For me, it’s one of the benefits of being a single woman in the twenty-first century. You see, the jewelry is much more than a mere indulgence. It’s a symbol. To empower you. And to remind you of your worth. Sure it’s nice when a loved one buys you jewelry. All I’m saying is that the loved one can be yourself.

Girl Talk, Pop Culture

Let’s Play Barbies

Have you heard about Barbie’s latest make-over? The iconic doll is now available with a “tall,” “petite,” or “curvy” body. Of course, there’s controversy. But then Barbie’s stirred debate ever since her debut in 1959.

Can Barbie dolls with “more realistic bodies” be the solution to raising the next generation of girls without eating disorders? Will these new Barbie dolls make every girl believe she is beautiful? Sadly, I don’t think so. Barbie cannot single handedly change the relentless societal pressures girls and women grapple with every time they look in the mirror.

While I look nothing like Barbie, even as a child, I never compared myself to her. She was a doll. With pretty clothes. And that was it. Because in the beginning, it was all about the clothes – glamorous, couture creations in miniature, with matching high heels and clutch bags. By the time Barbie became an astronaut and a surgeon, I had outgrown dolls.

Back in the day, there was no such thing as a “playdate.” You just showed up at your friend’s house with your Barbie carrying case. Then you and your friends sat on the floor with the dolls, their clothes, and a myriad of tiny shoes, purses, hats and gloves scattered all around, and played for hours. When it was lunchtime, your friend’s mom would make grilled cheese sandwiches. It was the eight-year-olds’ version of girls’ night out.

Barbie showed me how to dress for any activity or occasion, and how to do so in a ladylike way. She inspired me to create elaborate stories. She taught me how to share, and how to get along with the other girls.

Decades ago, I packed away my Barbies, each doll carefully wrapped in tissue paper, every outfit meticulously matched with its accessories. This vintage collection might be valuable. But I would never sell it. Because it’s priceless to me.

Girl Talk

Shoe Purgatory

I am in shoe purgatory, and I wouldn’t wish it on any woman.

Just like the line in Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” …water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink, I am surrounded by shoes I cannot wear.

Back in October, I tore the meniscus in my left knee. Fast forward a few months later and I’m wearing running shoes and a knee brace, as I hobble around with a cane, trying my best to avoid surgery.

At a follow-up appointment right before the holidays, I didn’t want to hear the orthopedic doctor’s description of the suggested surgical procedure to “go in and clean things up.”

All I wanted to know was, “When can I wear shoes?”

He pointed to my worn and grimy running shoes and said, “You are wearing shoes.”

“I mean real shoes,” I clarified. “Women’s shoes.”

“You mean, like, high heels?” He was finally catching on. “Oh, you won’t be able to do that for many months.”

“Many months!” I chirped. “But what about New Year’s Eve? Can I at least wear shoes on New Year’s Eve?”

He seemed amused that I was so concerned about shoes. These guys just don’t get it. He hesitated a moment before shaking his head no.

I tried to bargain with him. “What about ballet flats?”

“Well…okay. Flats. But only for a few hours and then you put the sneakers back on.”

“I promise.”

“When you do eventually start to wear shoes,” he continued, “you’ll need to wear shoes that have a full footprint, that are sturdy, and that don’t have a significant heel.”

So for the time being, I remain in shoe purgatory.

Mothers and Daughers

Shopping With My Mother

“What other colors does it come in?”

This is how my mother shops for clothing. When she sees something she likes – be it a blouse, or a particular style of pants, not to mention shoes – she’ll buy it in several different colors. It’s insanity, I know, but now she’s even got me doing it. Yes, all I’ve learned about shopping, I’ve learned from my mother.

You’d think living over two hundred miles apart would’ve put a crimp in our shopping expeditions, but it hasn’t. When I’m home for the weekend, our shopping marathons lead us to fine stores everywhere. And when she’s visiting me, we often drive up to the outlets in Kittery for a full day of shopping in the great state of Maine.

Then there’s the long distance shopping… I’ll find a voice mail message when I get home at night: “I got something for you today. It’ll arrive tomorrow by FED EX.”

I’ll call back to tell her, “Thanks Mom, but you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, but it was so perfect for you – and they were just giving it away.”

“Why’d you FED EX it? I’m coming home in two weeks.”

“I couldn’t wait – I wanted you to have it now.”

When I offer to pay for said item, she flatly refuses. And I don’t have the heart to point out to her that whatever she supposedly saved on the sale, she’s more than spent on the FED EX charge.

Her other big rationalization for committing what can only be described as consumer carnage is that she wasn’t even looking for this latest treasure. “I fell over it!” she’ll insist.

She frequents craft fairs, not only to support the local artists, but also to pick up some truly unique, one-of-a-kind items. She’ll present me with a stunning ceramic bowl or piece of stained glass that’s been stuffed into a shopping bag with bubble wrap and wads of tissue paper. When I innocently comment, “You didn’t get a box?” she’ll reply, “Box, schmox – he would only take cash – it was tough goin’.”

Despite all the shopping, one of my mother’s greatest gifts to me is not something she purchased, but rather something she taught me. How to always, always, be generous.

Life Lessons

How I Got to Red

I only wear red nail polish. My home décor is a rich palette of ruby, crimson, and wine. A fiery hue is even splashed across my website. Red evokes power and passion and I like that. In kindergarten, the other little girls delighted in adding white paint to the red paint to make pink. I preferred the red. When I grew up, I knew I wouldn’t be one of those pink ribbon chicks.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I respect and appreciate the pink ribbon for the extraordinary job it’s done to promote breast cancer awareness and support. That little symbol has raised millions of dollars and prompted countless women to schedule their mammograms. Make no mistake: the pink ribbon has saved lives. But the pink ribbon is not enough. Simply being aware and supportive won’t do. Not for the breast cancer epidemic. Not for me.

I’ll stick with my red and that Shakespeare quote from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “…and though she be but little, she is fierce.” I am fierce because I am dense.

When I learned that I have extremely dense breasts, I thought this was a good thing. Like they would stay perky forever. Turns out having dense breasts renders mammograms less effective. In fact, more than one radiologist has told me that looking for a tumor in my breasts is like looking for a golf ball in a blizzard.

I’m the cautionary tale and this is my public service announcement.

Several years ago, when a doctor suggested I consider supplementing my mammograms with MRI’s, I was proactive and scheduled both tests for the same day. The radiologist who reviewed my mammogram images said, “Everything looks great,” and told me to go have lunch and come back in an hour. The MRI found the cancer cells. Even though there was no tumor visible in the mammography pictures, and no palpable lump felt upon examination, the MRI detected what needed to be found. Turns out my cancer cells were aggressive so who knows what would have happened if I didn’t have the MRI when I did. So yes, I am a breast cancer survivor. And I am fierce.

When it comes to your health, be proactive and ask questions. Think of medical testing and treatment options as you would the dessert buffet – whatever they offer, you take it.

I challenge you to be fierce. You don’t have to wear red nail polish. You don’t even need to wear a pink ribbon. Just be fierce.

To learn more about what it means to have dense breast tissue, I encourage you to visit:

http://www.areyoudense.org/

Pop Culture

Man Buns

How did this happen? When did it happen? Suddenly everywhere I turn I see man buns. Men are walking down city streets, sitting in coffee shops, riding the subway to work with their hair up in little ballet dancer buns.

You thought I was talking about their behinds, didn’t you? No, I’m referring to the troubling men’s hair style that’s recently taken over the pages of magazines and now spilled out into real life.

man bun

Clearly, we were not paying attention when men starting carrying around messenger bags. Sure they’re big and boxy and “unisex” but make no mistake, they are purses. If we’d put a stop to the messenger bags when we had the chance, maybe we wouldn’t be dealing with all these man buns now.

I’ll go out on a limb here and publicly state that I do not like the man bun. I barely liked pony tails on men. Once in a while, just the right pony tail on just the right guy could be sort of badass. Think Johnny Depp, for example. But no man will ever look badass with a man bun. I guarantee it.

I worry what’s next. Men wearing nail polish? I’m surprised some marketing genius hasn’t already thought of it. They could call it “male polish” and all they’d have to do is rename the shades in language men understand. The darkest shade could be called Guinness. A silvery metallic would become Chrome Wrench. And any of the red shades could be renamed NASCAR Red.

All this sounds ridiculous, huh? That’s the point.

Girl Talk

In Good Company

Every pot has a lid. When I was younger, that’s what my well-meaning aunts always said to encourage me when the topic of my single status came up. Such homespun wisdom. Every pot has a lid. But what if I’m not a pot? What if I happen to be a pan, instead? It’s possible. I could be a sauté pan. A sauté pan without a lid.

I make a mental list of famous spinsters. Cleopatra…Queen Elizabeth I…Jane Austen…Susan B. Anthony…Emily Dickinson…Mary Cassatt…Helen Keller…Diane Keaton…Oprah Winfrey…Condoleezza Rice.

How did these women all end up spinsters? Limited access to men? Personal life sacrificed because of duty or career? Some, no doubt, wanted to marry, but were simply never asked. Did others cherish their freedom and willingly choose the single life?

Whatever their reasons, I count myself among them. Who knew I was in such good company?

Dolce Zitella's Latest Post, Girl Talk, Life Lessons

About My Blog: Dolce Zitella

Welcome to my blog Dolce Zitella. Doesn’t it sound like a decadent dessert? It’s not. For those of you whose roots do not trace back to that lovely boot-shaped country, let me translate. Dolce Zitella means “sweet spinster.” That’s right, I’m a woman of a certain age who’s never been married. It’s okay with me, but the word spinster seems to press a lot of women’s buttons. I mean, really, it’s only a word. But if shrouding the word in a layer of mystery and romance makes some people feel better, so be it.

While I have something to say about being a single woman, that’s not all I have to say. So it doesn’t really matter if you’re single or married, younger or older. After all, my younger sisters – I used to be you. Whether you’re adding highlights and lowlights or you’ve stopped dying your gray roots, whether your hot body is the reward of working out or the result of menopause induced hot flashes – we’re all part of the same sisterhood.

Like you, I’m just trying to balance career with the rest of my life, whether it’s spending time with family and friends; meeting a new man; being proactive about my health; trying out a new recipe; embarking on my latest home improvement project; taking a night class; engrossed in a book; binge watching a television series; or searching for that perfect shade of red nail polish…

Dolce Zitella will be updated on alternating Thursdays. Visit and bring your friends.