The Cher to My Madonna

I hate the term “BFF.” As a grown woman, I don’t understand the need to use acronyms in place of actual words. I do, however, appreciate the sentiment.

Instead of three letters, I use five: Talin.

Boston (4/2015)

She is my other half, my partner in crime, my soul sister.

She’s the one who can read my thoughts from the look on my face. Who can see me from across the room and understand exactly what I need. Who can finish my sentence before the words are out of my mouth.

We’ve been through a lot together over the last 23 years – death, divorce, breakups, cross-country moves, quiet spells, weddings and babies.

When I was 22 years old, my mother died. No one knew what to say, but Talin had the right words – words I still remember that comfort me to this day.

There was a time when I struggled with the people around me. I withdrew, but she came after me. When others turned their backs, she saw through my wall and sought me out.

And even though we went through a time of heartache – a time when we didn’t speak – that didn’t stop me from reaching out when I knew she was hurting. True friends put their crap aside when there’s a deeper need.

We have had so much fun together. Rooming together at youth conventions, tearing apart Boston at night, Hard Rock Café and Venus de Milo, Harvard Square coffee nights, hosting parties, going shopping, and talking talking talking.

We’ve always had our unique styles – individual tastes that remain our own. We were never those friends who looked and dressed exactly alike, and I love her even more for that. She’s the one who yelled at me when I wanted to wear beaded pants on my wedding day (“The man wears the pants, Silva!”) and who forced me to try on the wedding gown that I eventually wore on my special day (“Just put it ON!”). She’s the only one who can talk to me that way and get away with it, because she’s the only one I trust.

She’s intelligent, stylish, nurturing, classy, selfless, and caring. She has a huge and giving heart. She makes the effort. I don’t have to try with her – I can just be.

And she’s 3,000 miles away from me.

You’ll always be the Cher to my Madonna. I love you, Talin with a T.

Boxford, MA (2/1992)

Fresno (6/1992)

Los Angeles (7/1992)

Boston (5/1997)

Boston (6/2009)

Boston (6/2009)

Boston (6/2009)

Boston (11/2000)

Boston (11/2000)

Boston (11/2001)

Boston (11/2001)

Boston (10/2011)

Boston (2/2014)

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Overall, Suspend the Trend

Here’s the thing about trends – they come and they go.

You finally get your legs into Thakoon Addition’s amazing culottes when you realize you just have to have the new kimono trench straight off Tracy Reese’s runway. And then you dress in head-to-toe white before realizing yellow is all over Michael Kors’ and Christian Dior’s new collections. So you run to the boutique to pick up a military green romper like the one you saw at Marc Jacobs but then you spy the high-waisted shorts that Jill Stuart just put out.

It’s exhausting, really.

There’s no such thing as the latest “it” bag because as soon as everyone has one, there’s a new “it” thing to have.

When I was in college a zillion years ago, I spent two years volunteering as an International Assistant. It was kind of like being a resident assistant in a dorm, except we were there to help our international students adjust to life on campus and in the US. I was assigned students from Australia, Vietnam, Singapore, and even Canada. I taught them about public transportation in Boston, helped them open bank accounts, and showed them how the laundry machines worked. It was a lot of fun.

I learned pretty quickly that most international students have to be pretty well off to be able to study abroad. One friend from the Gulf was showing me photos from home when I asked if the guy he was with in one of the pictures was his father. He laughed and said, “No, that’s my driver.” Another kid spent $2K – EACH – on new rims for his sports car. $8K on accessories for his car! That was the cost of my tuition that semester!

The gorgeous girls from South America had the latest fashions each time they came back to school from break. I knew I couldn’t keep up. And I didn’t want to try. That’s when my true sense of style began to emerge. 

Style is personal. It represents your truest self – not what you see in magazines or on the runway, but how you see yourself. Through clothing, accessories, hair and makeup, style interprets your individuality, your creative expression, and your personal aesthetic.

Style is influenced by your upbringing, your environment, your culture, your family, your personal icons, and of course, what’s happening in the fashion world.

Maybe being trendy is your style, and that’s okay. Once in a while a fashion trend pops up that I like, that fits my style, and that reflects my aesthetic. But I like to take it, twist it, and make it my own.

For example, overalls have been making the trends-round lately. I wore overalls when I was in college, as they were popular in the early 90s. Since then, my stance on overalls has been firm and unwavering: Unless you are a house painter or a toddler, you should not own a pair of overalls. However, never say never…

Summer 1994

Today

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

When It’s Time To Change, It’s Time To Rearrange…

If you grew up in the States in the 70s, you’ll know what the title of this post is referring to. On the classic show The Brady Bunch, Peter Brady’s voice started to change when he hit puberty. Little Peter was growing up! And we grew up with him.

Last week there was a big change in our home. (I’m having a hard time even typing it.) Silas started using deodorant.

Maybe that’s not a big deal to some of you, but MY BABY IS NOW USING DEODORANT.

I knew the day would come, but I was thinking it would happen when he was in junior high school, maybe going into 7^th grade. At least in his tween years. But he’s only 9 (he’ll be 10 in a few weeks). He’s still a child! Or is he?

All I know is that in my mind, he’s still the baby I nervously brought home from the hospital. The one whose diaper I changed every few hours. The one I nursed for months and months. The one I held as he slept, feeling his warm breath on my neck. The one I comforted when he cried. The one whose fingers grasped mine as he was learning to walk. The one I read “Goodnight Moon” to one thousand times. The one I dressed. The one I potty trained. The one I took to the park and pushed in the swing.

That baby is now using deodorant. That means he stinks. He runs and jumps and gets dirty and rides his bike and wrestles with his brother. He sweats. He farts. He smells.

He needs deodorant.

I knew the day would come, but did it have to come so soon?

And just when I finally convinced myself that it’ll be okay – that he’s not packing up and moving out and leaving me forever just because there’s Speedstick on his bathroom counter, James loses a tooth. And this morning he tells me:

“I know you’re the tooth fairy, Mom.”

I think I’ll just bury myself in their baby pictures and cry.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.