Rachel at The Bodacious Beauty, which is scheduled to open at the Twenty Ninth Street Mall in Boulder late December. Makeup by DeAnne Grasinger, using D Lauren Cosmetics, sold exclusively at The Bodacious Beauty. (Photo by Molly Plann of The Bodacious Beauty. )

DeAnn Grasinger had me at the pink claw-foot tub.

Then she introduced me to her Victorian chaise lounge and her closet of corsets and bustiers. And then -- heaven help us, fetch my smelling salts -- she brought me into a pink room accented by pink pinkness, where she introduced me to her own mineral make-up line, skincare treatments and stuff like Boulder's only HydraFacial machine. I wanted to ask her what it was, but instead I think I asked her to marry me.

Grasinger is Boulder County's Superwoman. But I don't mean in the comic book kind of way. She's like a super woman, as in queen she, as in the creator of the ultimate haven for girls.

She calls it a boutique spa like you've never seen before.

And it really is. At The Bodacious Beauty, clients can get a wide variety of spa treatments (chemical peels, waxing, facials, microderm, temporary eyelashes), get a makeover and new makeup, go shopping for lingerie and then capture it all in a boudoir photo shoot. The studio has a half a dozen different scenes, from tall mirrors to a (less subtle) bed. You can bring your own outfit, or shop in the on-site store.

"It's like a haven where a woman can come and be herself in a safe and nurturing environment, and explore who she is and learn what's the best look for them without being chastised," Grasinger says.

And then capture that moment in time, she says.

The Bodacious Beauty (a name Grasinger's father helped her coin shortly before his unexpected death) is currently running out of Grasinger's in-home studio, and is scheduled to open at Boulder's Twenty Ninth Street Mall (on the second floor, above Starbucks) just after Christmas. The grand opening party is scheduled for Jan. 21, Grasinger's 45th birthday and the day that she will realize a dream that started when she was 13 years old.

That's when her Aunty Fanny introduced her to makeup. It became her passion, and Grasinger says she remembers telling her dad that vacation that she wanted to have her own makeup line some day.

She launched it, called D'Lauren (a combo of her name and her daughter's) about 16 years ago. Over the years, the mother of three added more spa treatments, is formulating her own skincare line and most recently decided to expand services to include photography and boudoir.

The idea came after Grasinger and a friend treated themselves to boudoir photos just for fun.

"We realized it was a perfect addition," she says. "Women get skincare treatments, learn make-up and show off who they are, and once they've realized their potential, we can capture that."

The Bodacious Beauty offers membership packages, from $39.95 a month for a twice-a-year makeover and full line of D'Lauren cosmetics. Add regular spa treatments to the package and the monthly rates rise, too.

Photo shoots start with $199 up front and increase based on the add-ons and products (such as books, canvas prints, calendars).

Grasinger plans on franchising within the year, with plans already in the works for DC, Soho, LA and Seattle.

"Watching women fall in love with themselves is the most gratifying thing. It makes my heart swell," Grasinger says. "Whether you're 18 or in your 60s, when you see yourself and you come out of your shell, it's the most unbelievable thing."


For more info, check out thebodaciousbeauty.com.

Read more at dailycamera.com. 

Fashion for your left brain

"Bats have feelings too" coat, a haptic coat for the blind. Designed by Lynne Bruning (lbruning.com). Stylist: Courtney Snider. Model: Ellyette. (Carl Snider)

Beauty schmeauty.

Bill Stoehr is more interested in what's captivating.

"I think beauty is a dysfunctional term," he says. "What most people think of as beauty is one of their own personal criteria in some subset of what's captivating."

Stoehr is a Boulder-based painter. But he's intrigued by neuroscience: how art expresses itself in the brain, and how genetics and life experiences weave together to influence what we consider beautiful or interesting.

He organized a recent sell-out series at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art, delving into how humans create, perceive and appreciate art -- from theater to music, and down to fashion.

There are certain aesthetics that appear "hard-wired." Stoehr says. Humans appear to be genetically predisposed to be attracted to volumetric curves over straight lines. ("What would Darwin think of that?" Stoehr asks with a laugh.)

But how do we explain everything else? Take Lady Gaga, he says. Not everyone would describe her as beautiful, but who can dispute that she's interesting? And in that, she has become a fashion icon.

"It turns out as humans, brain scientists are discovering that we have a built-in desire and interest and are captivated by something that's ambiguous or that is mysterious or creates a puzzle," Stoehr says.

In other words, what is beautiful in Iowa might not be considered beautiful in Nigeria, due to cultural influences, but underneath all of the attraction is the notion of mystery.

Some scientists believe that's why Michaelangelo didn't finish about two-thirds of his sculptures. He wasn't bored or distracted by another project, Stoehr surmises.

Maybe he did finish them.

"He left something for us to finish, let us complete the puzzle," Stoehr says. "When we see something ambiguous or unfinished, we finish it with our own perfect image, and then we create something that may be better than what the artist could have done, because it's something that appeals to us."

Art and science are not opposites or enemies; in fact, one can enhance the other, as the emerging field of neuroaesthetics teaches.

Award-winning fashion designer Lynne Bruning (lbruning.com) is proof of that. Bruning, of Denver has a degree in neurophysiology. And in architecture. She considers herself equally a scientist as an artist. Which, in a sense, is redundant. Bruning does not see a difference in the two.

"In science, there's an inherent beauty in it. When you look through a microscope, you're privy enough to understand how nature comes together on a cellular level," she says.

Architecture, fashion and art all use the same building blocks, she says.

"Everything's the same. There's nothing new here. You jump scale and you change palettes," she says. "That's it."

Simple. Sure. Like a coat Bruning designed called "Bats have feelings, too." The gorgeous red coat is packed with ultrasonic range finders that constantly sense the environment and feed it into a microcontroller, which activates vibrating motors so the wearer knows when something is in the way.

In other words, it's a fashionable haptic coat for the blind. A wearable cane.

Bruning specializes in technology-based clothing and textiles, including a handcrafted blacklight-reactive 1870s-influenced evening gown, with a corset and bustle illuminated by ultraviolet LED lights. (It took her one hour to weave one inch of fabric, and the dress has 120 inches of fabric.)

As Bruning sees it, something is captivating when it's a fresh interpretation of something you already know. Take her floor-length lace evening coat called "What golden webs we weave." It uses a traditional method of making lace, using nontraditional fibers, such as novelty yarns, metallic threads, ribbons and wool roving -- inspired by a spider web.

"Something can be captivating to me, whether I look at a computer code so elegantly crafted that it's beautifully simple -- just exquisite -- or a painting that's done," Bruning says. "The craftsmanship can be in any discipline, but it has to have rigor and a fresh interpretation."

A surprising encounter at the thrift store

Thrift-store score: This weird lamp with a fake bird. From the collection (cough, cough) of Aimee Heckel.

I'm kind of cynical. So I figured I'd been had.

The old man walked out with the antique lamp. And the clerk looked at me to pay for it. How did I end up in this mess?

I guess it started with stress.

Whenever I hear or anticipate bad news, or worry in general, or worry about worrying too much, I pacify myself via pretty things.

In other words, when the fit hits the shan, I go shopping. I figure it's healthier than boiling crack on tin foil, and only slightly worse than ordering a bowl of gummy bears at Ben and Jerry's, which is my other go-to.

I don't usually purchase anything, because that just leads to more bad news in the form of ramen noodles for dinner for the rest of the month. So I am a looker. A toucher. An admirer from a distance, with such convincing fervor that it's no wonder the older man assumed I was about the buy the lamp at the HospiceCare and Share Thrift Shop in Boulder.

I wasn't.

Still, it was glorious: antique and brass, with intricate detailing and accents that reminded me of an old skeleton key. Suddenly, a white head was peeking around the other side of the lamp.

"Hmm, I could fix that," he mumbled, pointing at a piece near the bulb that I hadn't noticed was busted. Suddenly, I felt protective over the lamp that I wasn't going to buy; was he trying to buy it out of my hands? How did he know I didn't want it even though I didn't?

The clerk joined in the conversation, explaining that the lamp had been a set of two, and a well-known antique dealer had bought the other one because it was in better condition. This lamp would be very valuable, if it weren't a total fire hazard, she said.

Eek. Now I knew I wasn't going to buy it. My kid can injure herself on feathers and air.

Suddenly, the man had the lamp upside down and was unscrewing piece after piece, pointing at wires and fuses (maybe?) and spark plugs (maybe not?) and all of the magical components that make electricity go zap. It looked complicated. But now I couldn't just walk away. I was invested, because I was holding the screws.

Trying to draw the attention back to me, and the fact that technically I had dibs on the lamp, even though it was $21 and way out of my planned budget of $0, I small-talked: "Are you an electrician or something?"

"Use to be," he said, while plucking out some more wiry guts. And then, he called across the store to a woman, "Hey, honey, what time is your birthday dinner tonight?" It was at 6. And then to me, "Can you get it before 6?"

I cocked my head like a confused puppy listening to a hamster wheel.

"Here," he said, suddenly grabbing a pen off the counter. He wrote down his name, Bob, and an address. He handed me the paper and walked out the door.

"That'll be $21," the clerk announced, which was my first realization that I had just purchased a lamp. Possibly for a stranger.

As the day grew closer to 6 p.m., I kept eyeing that peculiar piece of paper and wondering what to do. Was he for real?
Was it a scam? Was he a murderer, luring in girls in with antiques? Was he going to charge me $600 for the repairs? Because surely, no one would just do something nice for a stranger and expect nothing -- on his wife's birthday, nonetheless.

My curiosity defeated my skepticism, and I decided to scout out Bob's house. If the address was even real.

It was. They probably wouldn't be home.

They were. In fact, when Bob opened the door, he and his wife greeted me with such enthusiasm that I briefly wondered if they were actually my grandparents but I had just, um, forgotten?

Bob brought me to his garage, where he had completely replaced the head of the lamp, installed a three-level dimmer and even given me a fresh bulb. It looked brand new, and he assured me it was just as safe. I prepared for the catch.

"So how much do you want for the repairs?" I asked, while imagining ramen noodle salad and ramen noodle sandwiches for the next three weeks.

Bob laughed. Now it was his turn to look confused. The thought had never crossed his mind. He was the real deal. An honest to goodness pure and undiluted Nice Person.

Whoa. It was like being face to face with an endangered ivory-billed woodpecker.

Every night now when I get home from work, I flip on my beautiful brass key-pattern lamp -- my absolute favorite possession -- and it instantly diffuses any stress and worries. It fills my house with light and love, like the unsolicited light and love poured into it by a stranger. And it reminds me to keep spreading mine.

And that sometimes the most unexpected, and even unwanted, gifts can be the best.

Read more at Dailycamera.com.

Don't by a fashion sloth: Gluttony is so 2006

Blame it on the economy, or whatever your opposing political party is, or on the weather. But fashion around here has a whole new meaning.

The magazines and catwalks are still so old fashioned; they haven't even yet released designs for the season of Recession 2007-11. I laugh at the "Lust/Must" pages, featuring billion-dollar couture items and their "inexpensive" inspirations -- for only $559 per glove!

Right. Sure, let me just count that out in coins from under my car seat. And then run that "must-have" shopping list past the "Occupy" crowd.

Sure, a few Boulderites have squeaked by in lucky oblivion, but for the former CEOs now scraping by on $10 an hour (or journalists who have been broke since the advent of the Gutenberg Press), true style is about creativity, prioritizing, recycling and a darn good deal.

Style is about being smart. It is no more sexy to be gluttonous with your credit card than it is with your lunch menu. Sure, a grease-soaked bag of French fries is novel on occasion, but balance it out with some leafy-green discretion, or you're honestly kind of gross. Same goes with your labels. Head-to-toe inflated price tags lacks individuality -- and discretion.

My BFF Brittany and I have a bit of a competition going on (although she doesn't exactly know -- yet) for who can best rock Recession style. One point for cuteness. One point for craftiness/DIY. Two points for creativity. And one point per every $10 saved, per item.

Take a flower-accented belt that Brittany saw in the store for $40. She bought a fake flower, glued it to a clip and affixed it to a belt she already owned, totaling $5. That's like 293.5 points, if my math-for-liberal-arts-majors training is correct.

I can't DIM-A (do it myself -- anything ). But unfortunately for Brittany, I've got a new secret that is about to take her down: Hip Consignment, 1468 Pearl St. in Boulder.

Vanquish any idea you have of consignment shopping. Because if I didn't tell you (well, that and the store's name), you wouldn't know. You'd just think you were in a beautiful boutique hallucinating over finding designer dresses around $40, accessories from $5 and, um, excuse me while I weep in delight, but is that a brand new Diane Von Furstenberg line?

The 8-month-old store was designed to break the stigma of consignment shopping, while hooking ladies up with fancy-pants clothing for Marshall's sales rack prices.

I'm going to need a new fashion point system. Either that, or more fingers and toes to count on.

Tip: Like Hip Consignment on Facebook (Facebook.com/hipconsignmentboulder) and get in on regular specials, including the Mad Dash Lunchtime Specials from noon-1 p.m. Monday through Thursday. Select merchandise goes on sale for just this one hour, like 30 percent off boots for winter.

Coming up at Hip Consignment: The Holiday Dress Extravaganza, Nov. 26-27. The plan: Accumulate 100 fantastic
holiday dresses to put on sale the weekend of Black Friday.

Read more at Dailycamera.com. 
Check out my BFF Brittany's blog at loislanelifestyle.blogspot.com. 

Finding your inner steampunk

For more subtle steampunk style, check out the brown lace-front Sarai top, $70, by Australian-based tahnaya.etsy.com. With cap sleeves, high turtleneck collar. Also check out the shops' Gothic Victorian-inspired dress ($160) with a standing lace collar, short puffy sleeves, layers of ruffles and tulle and carved wooden buttons up the back. (Jeremy Sypniewski)

Steampunk is second nature to modern-day alchemist, Joshua Onysko.

Beyond the fact that he moved to India in 1999 so he could ride steam-engine trains, in his practice, and in his daily life, the Boulder man enjoys combining different elements to create something else. Whether it's as simple as adding a brass belt buckle to a regular outfit, or as complex as deconstructing plants chemically and them recombining them to create a mood-enhancing candy.

In fact, Onysko used ancient alchemy to create a cutting-edge skin-care line, Pangea Organics (pangeaorganics.com), an organic, fair-trade, natural skincare line that boasts a long list of awards and national accolades. Including the (very) lesser-celebrated Aimee Heckel Test; I use and love the Italian Red Mandarin with Rose face cream, ($36 for 2 ounces).

On Halloween, Onysko organized a steampunk-theme fundraiser at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art. The party raised money for the campaign Hey GMOs, Stop Trying To Get In My Plants, a media campaign to raise awareness about the risks of genetically modified organisms in our food.

"I've always been fascinated by combining two different cultures, and that's what steampunk is," Onysko says. "It's combining the steam era with futurism."

As Onysko sees it, adding steampunk to your daily wardrobe can be as simple as copper earrings, aviator goggles, puffy shirts, brass jewelry or boots. Imagine futuristic innovations as Victorians may have imagined them. Some call it neo-Victorian: a mix of clothes from 1950 to 1910 with technology using gears and mechanics, instead of computers.

But it's more than "brass and watch parts," according to the blog thesteampunkhome.blogspot.com.

Antique black leather Victorian lace-up boots, $175, from Boulder-based charlesvintage.etsy.com. Made by Peters Shoe Company in the 1900s, and in excellent condition, too. Granny meets old school teacher meets a Salem witch.

"It's finding a way to combine the past and the future in an aesthetic (sic) pleasing yet still punkish way. It's living a life that looks old-fashioned, yet speaks to the future. It's taking the detritus of our modern technological society and remaking it into useful things," the blog explains.

Want to infuse a little more steaminess into your punk this fall? Check out these items from local Etsy sellers:

Compass necklace, $55, chainedbeauty.etsy.com -- Wrapped in chain mail, made from a variety of metals, including brasses, stainless steal and aluminum. The Boulder-based designer, Peter Cacek, has been immersed in medieval art forms his whole life, "ever since my dad worked a blacksmith's forge when I was a child."

Antique black leather Victorian lace-up boots, $175, from Boulder-based charlesvintage.etsy.com -- Made by Peters Shoe Company in the 1900s, and in excellent condition, too. Granny meets old school teacher meets a Salem witch.

Here are some other Etsy ideas from around the globe:

For more subtle steampunk style, check out the brown lace-front Sarai top, $70, by Australian-based tahnaya.etsy.com. With cap sleeves, high turtleneck collar. Also check out the shops' Gothic Victorian-inspired dress ($160) with a standing lace collar, short puffy sleeves, layers of ruffles and tulle and carved wooden buttons up the back.

For blatant steampunk, go for a handmade Alfresco-style mechanical bracelet watch with a skeleton pattern, $109, by alfrescouniquegroup.etsy.com. Leather band wraps around your wrist twice from both sides. And to be extra authentic, this watch works without a battery.

Read more at www.dailycamera.com.

High-end fashion in Longmont

Danielle Seiss has it rough. She is surrounded by jaw-droppingly stunning clothes all day long. This might not sound so terrible -- unless you've also worked selling something that you love. Then you know the amount of self-control it takes to not blow your entire paycheck before it hits the bank.

Seiss is the owner of Apparel Valley, a high-end fashion boutique that opened in downtown Longmont two weeks ago. The shop, which first launched online in 2009, already has a following, and features quality, timeless women's clothes, accessories and gifts with a European flair. The racks are filled with some of

Colorado's best designers, as well as products that support disadvantaged women around the world. All items are chosen for simultaneously being elegant, yet practical. Like machine-washable leather. Or boiled wool, which has the warmth of wool but with a smoother texture and lighter weight.

"The problem we have is we love everything in our store," Seiss says, with a laugh. "I appreciate it when people buy things in my size."

She's holding a long, fitted red fleece trench coat-inspired jacket with an oversized external pocket and asymmetrical buttons. The shop has been open for three days and it's almost sold out of all of the scarves. That's a good problem to have, Seiss admits, for the shop's sake and her own.

"It's dangerous working around beautiful clothing," she says. "It's like setting a chocolate cake down in front of (yourself) and saying, 'I'm not going to touch that.'"

  Indeed, it's dangerous seeking out and writing about beautiful clothing, too. Seiss let me try on the Covelo Degas jacket, a below-the-knee-length boiled wool jacket, dip-dyed to have a gradient of teal color, and accented with dramatic ruffles and oversized fabric flowers ($318). While wiping the drool off my chin, I sized up Seiss to determine if I could outrun her out the front door. I decided the length of the jacket might slow my stride, reluctantly hung it back up and went to smother my envy in greasy hash browns in Janie's Cafe a few doors down.

Every resident in east Boulder County should be sending Apparel Valley, 471 Main St., a thank you card, for bringing some legitimate fashion to this side of the Rockies.

The shop's staple is Longmont-based Icelandic Design (icelandicdesign.com), which makes sweaters and jackets in the handicraft tradition of Iceland, where the founder is from. My favorite Icelandic Design piece is an Asian-print inspired sweater called the Taiko: 100 percent wool, $238, in charcoal and gold (two of the top colors for this fall).

Clothes in Apparel Valley range from $48 to $400 a piece. Accessories start at $38. And if you're looking for inexpensive gifts, check out the Cube Suds (locally made all natural soap), starting at $8.

For more info on Apparel Valley, check out facebook.com/ApparelValley, apparelvalley.blogspot.com, or buy online at apparelvalley.com.
 
Read more at www.dailycamera.com.

Scary hairy

Originally published 8/31/09

When I was 12, I got a horrible spiral perm. One tragic day, I went to bed with wet hair. The next morning, I combed it out, using no balms or gels or serums or, heck, I would have even benefited from squirting straight lotion on my head. The result: I looked like a lion that got stuck on an electric fence.

So I share the sadness and stress of this poor runway model, pictured at right, who obviously also got a bad spiral perm and slept on it and forgot her balms at home.

Equally as tragic is this poor lass, pictured at left, also from the Hair Fashion Show in Sao Paulo on Wednesday. She obviously tried the lotion trick, but ended up looking like a member of the Misfits.

(AP photo)

Fitting in with the misfits

Kids give us an excuse to be as ridiculous as we want to be. And that is how I justify an otherwise disturbing scene that encompassed a recent Monday evening.

Bettie Anne, 19 months old, was wearing her favorite outfit: a plastic pirate's hat and her pink rain boots that are four sizes too big. She was also wearing her pajamas, which are not "pajamas" by anyone's definition other than hers: her ubiquitous pink bow and her pink-and-white polka-dot jacket. Yes, that's what she likes to sleep in.

 And I let her. Because I am the mom who, including at this particular point in time, wears a white wig for no reason. Bettie thinks I look better with white hair, based on her requirement that I wear this wig at all times while we play trains, but not when we play dolls or read because, gosh, duh.

 I've got it easy. Bettie thinks her dad looks better with blue skin. Which explains why, on this fateful night that I hope Bettie never remembers out-of-context in a psychiatrist's chair, he was stuck in a head-to-toe blue spandex Morphsuit. Not sure what a Morphsuit is? You're luckier than my neighbors. Which might explain why no kids ever trick-or-treat at our house, not even when we stack mountains of those addictive little pumpkin candies on our doorstep with a sign that says, "Take this, for my saddlebags' sake!"

 The neighbors might be terrified of us. But my daughter has no fear. Other than of normalcy. She screams in disgust when her dad takes off his stretchy blue legs to do things such as go to the bathroom or shower or go to the grocery store. If Bettie Anne had her way, every day would be Halloween.

Ah yes. That's my little mini.

 Sure, silly little things like the "alphabet" and "numbers" are neat. But what really fills me up with pride when she covers her feet with sidewalk chalk or paints her cheeks with watercolors or builds virtual pants on her little legs with hundreds of Band-Aids. Bettie laughed while we painted my bunny mask with fake blood, and it was her idea to decorate daddy's taxidermy hammerhead shark with thick silver necklaces. Her favorite toy is a realistic-looking, feather-covered black crow.

 Her creativity is as wide as the universe. It hasn't yet been smushed and boxed by peer pressure, self-consciousness and judgment. And as far as she knows, all daddies have blue spandex flesh, all kids wear pirate hats to breakfast and every day really is a special occasion to dress up. She can be anything in the world for no reason -- only limited by her imagination. And as her mom, it's my job to wind that up, let it whirl and get out of the way.

 Plus, it makes Halloween easy. She already has her costume: a pirate with a black crow on her shoulder. And no ghosts and goblins could possibly scare her. Not when she's used to a mandex-clad dad.

Photo by Larry Sullivan.
 
Read more at www.dailycamera.com.

The Pretty Campers Club

My daddy would have been proud. Everyone else was just stunned.

When I crawled out of the tent, my friends stopped and cocked their heads, like they had just discovered a new creature on the shores of Lake Powell in Utah. One with polkadot markings.

Or perhaps my fluffy parasol clashed with the sand, lake muck and last night's campfire smoke.
Finally, someone spoke: "You look like love child of 'The Mickey Mouse Club' and 'I Love Lucy.'"
It was true. And totally my intention.

I was wearing a red-and-white polka-dot vintage-style bathing suit from West Side Sinners in Denver (http://www.westsidesinners.com/) and an oversized white hat, in addition to the umbrella, which matched my skirt.

Sounds high maintenance. But it was quite the opposite. I had the lightest bag in the group, and I was also the only face to not get sun-fried, thanks to my double decker umbrella-hat fortress.

You see, fashion involves much more than simply putting on clothes. It spans the entire process of visual self-expression, including what you choose to use, how you use it and why. And person's fashion consciousness is amplified when condensed into a tiny duffel bag.

I have packing down to a precise equation: multi-purpose. Everything must hinge around one color and style scheme, maximizing style options and minimizing space.

For my dad, the bottom line is lightweight. He and his buddies have a club, the Rocky Mountain Titanium and High Tech Devices Backpacking Club. Because my dad worked in IT for 30 years, he insists I use the acronym RMTAHTDBC.

The RMTAHTDBC prides itself in low-weight, but not minimalist, packing. Points are awarded for the coolest devices that are invented in the garage, always involving duct tape. For example, piece of foam that quadruples as a chair, pillow, table and hat would be considered top-of-the-line couture.

Your overall pack weight earns the most points. Any pack weighing more than 35 pounds is an embarrassment. My brother's once came in at 20 pounds. Granted, he slept under the stars -- and later the hail -- without a tent, but that just elevated his style status.

Unlike my hail-beaten brother, my secondary objective for outdoor packing is to shield myself (and expensive hair dye) from said outdoors. A massive sunhat is a must, such as the wide-brim Jeanne Simmons hats for $29 at Paper Doll, 1141 Pearl St. in Boulder. My fave is the 7-inch-wide black-and-white striped wire brim hat, which comes with a matching handbag.

Some hats even boast 50 SPF and can fold into a tiny wad. Check out http://www.hatstack.com/ for more of the glory.

For a slightly smaller but still ridiculously awesome 5-inch brim hat, check out the Raffia Exotic Hat by Tropical Items Madagascar (http://www.tropicalitems.com/), a Boulder-based retailer of handmade, fair-trade crafts made in Madagascar.

A portion of all sales goes to the nonprofit Hope for Madagascar, which aims to improve the lives of the Malagasy people and their country. Find the raffia hat at Boulder and Beyond Art, 1211B Pearl St., for $39.99. It comes in 12 colors, including dusty pink.

Which just so happens to match my Lake Powell parasol and skirt.

I think I need to start my own club: The Rocky Mountain Pink Parasol and Pretty Campers Club.

Read more at www.dailycamera.com.

Fashion karma: Why I hate the bus and the bus hates me

10/07/2010

Sometimes, I ride the bus. Although this helps secure me a seat in EcoHeaven, I loathe the bus. It's boring and smelly and cold, and it takes twice as long as driving. I can't read or text because I have severe (like SEVERE in all caps with extra exclamation marks!!) vertigo. I never used to have vertigo. It's a new feature on Aimee 3.1.

Yesterday, I had a brilliant idea on how to pass the 16 hours it takes to go the 14 miles from Boulder to Longmont. As a new mommy, I never have time to paint my nails. (It's OK to already start shaking your head at me as you anticipate where this one is going.)

I figured I could paint my nails while waiting at the bus stop, because I am a complete wreckmaniac about bus schedules and I am always 25 minutes early because I'm so stressed out and terrified of missing the bus, and the whole time I'm at the bus stop I pace around nervously checking the time and looking around for the bus like if I relax or blink I will somehow miss the 40-foot-long, screaming vehicle moving at 2 miles per hour as it churns past me.

I hate the bus.

So I thought, in the peak of my ultimate brilliancy, I thought I could paint my nails while waiting at the bus stop, and then I would have one full hour of staring out the window counting cows for the polish to dry.

How could I go wrong?

Oh, let me tell you.

Turns out yesterday I was so early to the bus stop that I ended up being almost late for the bus earlier than the one I originally planned on taking. I know that doesn't make sense, but get over it. As I walked up, there was already a line forming where the bus driver would soon open the doors, the gateway to nausea and an inexplicable popcorn odor.

I hopped to the back of the line, totally stressed out because I always am when I get near buses with their "schedules." That's when I realized I only had one or two minutes to paint my nails so they could dry on the drive.

I crouched down near by bag and opened up my new bottle of shiny gold polish. When the lid came off, it hit me: the odor. Holy McMoly, I hadn't thought about the offensive smell of nail polish in the enclosed space. But I had already launched this mission, so I was committed.

I stayed crouched down by my bag decided to quickly paint my nails in the secretive wall of my long hair, and then I would slip the polish back into my bag and walk onto the bus and no one would ever know it was me who was responsible for the stink. Perfect plan! And I'd have awesome nails.

One fingernail, two, I got my left hand done. And then the doors cracked open and the line began wiggling forward. Ah! I scooted forward in crouching tiger position, trying to inconspicuously screw the lid back onto the bottle when:

Noooooo!

I dropped the entire bottle, and in slow motion, a ribbon of bright gold hell spewed out the top and landed with a violent crash onto my

FAVORITE

WHITE

VINTAGE

BEAUTIFUL

ONE-OF-A-KIND

FANCY

BLOUSE.

By now the line was rushing forward, and I had dropped the polish. It had also painted the sidewalk, and the shuffling shoes skidded through it, leaving the striped proof of my error in rays surrounding me. Everyone knew it was me, and as I stood there with my jaw dropped, just staring numbly at the horrible splatter of gold nail polish that had violated my blouse, every passersby getting on the bus scowled at me. (Rightfully so.) Scowl. I scowled at myself. The stench was immeasurable.

Finally, I reached into my bag to get my Eco-Pass -- oops, I smeared three fingers' worth of polish across my white (yes, white, of course it had to be white) bag. I tried to rub it off with my other hand, but then ended up with the pads of my other hand covered in gold lacquer, and the small dots of gold on my bag smudged into what looked like, let's just say, something less than gorgeous that happens when you feed a baby too many yams.

I showed the driver my Eco-Pass and took a seat behind him, afraid to touch anything for fear of soiling the seats and then getting stuck with a $9 million bill to reupholster the whole RTD line. I locked my eyes out the window, knowing if I looked at anything in the bus I would immediately be stricken with the urge to vomit like a pregnant woman on a Tilt-A-Whirl after eating eight funnel cakes, when -- ohhhh. No. Nooo. NO.

The scent of the polish had crawled up my arm and tickled its way into my nose, pulling the nausea plug and sending me head-between-legs sick to my stomach. But I couldn't complain.
This was my fault. I couldn't escape it either; half of my blouse was soaked, my bag was smeared and both of my hands were covered. I even had some near my right eyebrow.

So there I sat for an hour, huffing nail polish; actively striving not to vomit and thereby further offend my fellow passengers; and basking in the karma of yet another fashion disaster.

The bus hates me.

Photo by Flickr user Ollie Crafoord.

Before you get a tattoo, don't consider this

So, I wore black Ed Hardy sweatpants to work out last week.

I know.

Even though The Buckle, Las Vegas in general and a handful of unfortunate fratbags don't, I do know that Ed Hardy, excessively embellished "tattoo design" clothing and fight apparel (starting but not ending with Affliction) are now officially overdone and therefore out of style.

But the thing is, these sweats are so comfortable that I don't care. (I sound like a Crocs-wearer.)

Plus, I'm hoping that sweatpants somehow get exemption from trends. I mean, they're sweats. Their very nature is anti-sexy.

Sometimes I get all Hot Tub Time Machine and imagine I'm looking back on the late 2000s/early 2010s. I think people will wear Ed Hardy costumes, pink hair and ear gauges, similar to how we wear jelly bracelets and banana clips when we dress for an '80s party. Surely the J-Bieb swooping man bangs (the preppy version of the Emo) will be a costume staple. So will the Kat Von D wig: black hair with blonde highlights.

Which brings up tattoos. No one can deny that tattoos are super trendy right now. They started out alternative, but now everyone and their mom, literally, has one. Full sleeves are no longer novel, not even on police officers, pregnant women and doctors. Certainly not on women. Thanks Angelina. Thanks Suicide Girls. We can single-handedly thank Megan Fox for the side rib tattoos.

I've got my share of ink, and it's worth disclaiming that my husband is a tattoo artist. Which makes me ponder about the longevity of his career; like other tattooists, he only is getting busier.

How will tattoos be perceived in 10 years, 20 years, 50 years? Will everyone eventually be covered? Will no one care? How does a trend that is permanent change the dynamics of what's "in" and "out?"

With so many people with tattoos, especially tattoos that they love (elaborate -- and expensive -- works of art), it seems unlikely that tattoos can ever actually go out of style.

But I wonder if my daughter will hate them because all the "old people" have tattoos. Or will she get one when she's 10? Will body modification just get more and more extreme, like with glow-in-the-dark LED implants? Or will there be a huge surge of rebellion against what is now the norm, a wave of people removing them to look "cool" and not "old."

Look at history. Every decade or so seems to be a rebellion against a previous one. Following the minimalism of the Depression, the '50s were all glam, excess and glory. Red lipstick and curls. Then '70s rebelled against that, with minimalism. No makeup, natural hippies and straight hair. Then the '80s rebelled against that, with another version of glam -- more excess, layers of necklaces, ruffles and lace and bows. Then the '90s went the opposite direction: grunge, plaid and boyish ruggedness.

I don't exactly understand the evolution we are in now. I ponder permanency, and how that will change the ebb and flow of trends. What if the red lipstick of the '50s were permanent? Would all of those women have regretted it just 20 years later, but then been happy to have it again in the '80s?

How will permanent body modifications play into the trends of the future? And if they go "out" somehow and people begin removing them, will that make the rest of us who keep our tattoos rebels again -- bringing tattoos back to their original roots?

I asked my husband these questions and he looked at me blankly. Then he responded:
If you worry about what others will think of your tattoo, then you're getting it for the wrong reason to begin with.

Maybe I should let him tattoo "touché" on my forehead.

Photo by Molly Plann.

The Work Shower

So this is what it's come to: the work shower.

I could blow the next 10 minutes telling you how I've been too busy to shower, much less pamper myself, but instead I will explain everything in three and a half words (because one is a contraction): I'm a mom.

And last week, I literally packed up my soap and razor (forgot the shaving cream, but that's the least of my problems) to bring to work. So I could shower. And shave. To save my marriage. And my dignity. No offense, peace-loving hippies. None taken, of course; you're peace-loving.

That was my idea of "me time." Who, me? I'd forgotten about her.

No time to shower this morning, but I'll squeeze it in between interviews. Awesome! I'll even bring my special Pangea Organics body wash. Awesomer!

I didn't even realize how truly pathetic I had become until I told a friend.

Me: Sorry I missed your text. I was showering.

Unsuspecting friend: Oh, are you at home today?

Me: No, I used the shower in the work bathroom.

Sympathetic friend: Ew, I'm sorry.

Me: Sorry? Oh, yeah, I mean, ew, yeah, gross.

Concerned friend: Is yours all dark and moldy, too?

Me: Of course it is.

Repulsed friend: Yeah. That's the very description of "work shower." They're one step below truck-stop shower and one tiny step above washing your feet in the Conoco toilet. I always wondered who used the work shower.

Me: Now you know: moms.

Maybe it was my confession, or my realization, or maybe it was actually true, but after my work shower, I felt dirtier than I felt before I stepped into that dark, moist, tile-covered cave just past the breast-pumping table. And I began to dream about other spa treatments that don't require a tetanus shot first.

Photo by Flickr user stevendepolo.

The fine line between participation and caricature

When it comes down to it, this is actually quite ridiculous. My dad would call it a "high-level problem." It's not like I'm worrying about dying of cholera in contaminated drinking water or where my family is going to sleep tonight.

I've been sitting here in tears because my daughter won't nap, and I'm supposed to be writing about Betabrand "Cordaround" pants (with horizontal instead of vertical corduroy), but I absolutely cannot do it because, well, all I can think about is what I'm supposed to wear to the Def Leppard concert tonight.

Yup. That's my stress.

I think the last time I felt this anxious about what to wear was the first day of seventh-grade, which, incidentally, was around the height of my Def Lep fanaticism. Now, I'm what you might call a serial sarcastic-concert-goer. I wore stirrup pants to Bon Jovi and a baggy tee and tight jeans to Bret Michaels. I even curled and ratted my bangs, just for good measure.

When attending such a concert, you must swathe yourself in the right amount of ridiculousness, in order to securely draw the line between participation and caricature. Otherwise you could be swept into the sea of serious Cherry Creek moms, swaying and holding their hands over their hearts/Mom Jeans' waistbands (same location), while nodding that yes, every rose does have its thorn. Sniffle.

In a way, concert slumming is simultaneously owning and chuckling at your past -- a way to indulge in excellent power ballads like "Love Bites," while rising above the fact that Tommy checked "no" in the letter you passed him, even though you carved a "T" with an eraser on your ankle for him. Or so I hear. (The "T" on my ankle is a totally natural scar from some injury that I can't seem to remember.)

You see, if I just hopped in my car without crimping my hair, people might think I seriously like the greatest stripper song of all times ("Pour some sugar on me," obviously), or that I regularly dance around my house to it while sweeping when my husband works late on Thursdays.

Yet my costume creativity is depleted, and like any art form, you can't force it when uninspired. I used all of it for a photo shoot this weekend for my husband's business, Surfbillytattoo.com, whereby I hula-hooped while wearing a latex dress and stilettos; Lisa ate Astro Pops in a kiddie pool of squirt guns; and Caleb sipped fine whiskey in a beach chair in a graffiti-covered alley. How could I possibly one-up a photo stint with a pirate piñata and mermaid costume? I don't even know what's normal or bizarre anymore, much less what a proper '80s costume entails.

Plus, we're going to the concert with our friends Mike and Renu, the ultimate hair-band couple. Renu is a mad scientist who can infuse glitter into any substance, from lip gloss to cocktails to a curry dinner. She's the only human more sparkly than Joe Elliott himself, with his matching silver glit-sneakers, mic and stand, guitar, belt and (probably) man thong.

Whereas Mike, with his long, curly brown hair, is a dead ringer for Vivian Campbell. Did I mention he plays the bass? Mike, not Vivian. See? Even I'm confused.

As for my husband, I caught him cramming on Def Leppard's Wikipedia page so he would have some "limo banter." (Of course Mike and Renu rented a limo, because they are the ultimate.) My shaved-headed man won't even paint his nails, and he doesn't own one single pair of leather pants or glitter shoes.

We are doomed for a very serious night out in our regular clothes.

I guess I'll just wear what I already have on: a short leopard-print ruffle dress, pumps with socks, one single fingerless fishnet glove and this cropped leather jacket.

Sigh. Maybe Tommy will be there.

Link:
http://www.dailycamera.com/ci_18829944

Unplugged

Boulder is the third-techiest city in the nation, according to a TechAmerica Foundation report.
And we would be in first place if I weren't throwing off the curve. Ask my office's IT guys; I crash computers by looking at them. I should just start carving my articles into rocks.

While prepping for a recent party, I realized our boombox was broken. Well, I lost the cord, and I didn't want to look for batteries. So I sent an e-mail (very high tech) to several friends asking them to bring some good CDs to play from our DVD player (fancy) through the TV (some might also refer to this device as a "television set").

That is when it came to my attention that no one listens to these small silver circles of ever-
scratched plastic anymore. My friend Jess put it gently: "I can burn you some CDs from my iPod, I guess." Burn. Pod. Help. I was so out of my league.

Jess is the same friend who gave me a laptop she didn't want anymore because she was sick of me responding to her Facebook Evites three weeks past event date. That meant I also had to get the World Wide Internets in my house. When I signed up (it took three months), Comcast offered cable TV, too. I said no thanks, but we were satisfied with our bunny-ears antenna with crushed PBR cans on the ends (tech tip: they work excellent to boost the signal).

If you think I'm ignoring the photo you sent me of your engagement ring or new flip phone blackberry 32L network pad pod (see, I can't even come up with a fake product name), I'm not. I just don't get pictures on my Sanyo Qualcomm 3G CDMA, which came with my $35 per month contract. But feel free to post a "digital photo" on my "Facebook wall." I've been known to check that every two weeks, now that I have the Information Superhighway running through my very own house.

Just pretend I'm your grandmother. Ten years ago.

Photo by Flickr user kitakitts.

Brittany: How we got punked by an 80-year-old

The judgmental smirk from the older woman walking past our table tipped me off. We had Lola all wrong.

My BFF Brittany and I were stuffing lo mein into our mouth-holes at a Chinese restaurant called Golden Heaven Gate Red Dragon Lotus (or some arrangement of those six key words). Coming off a tumultuous week, we'd decided to kick the fun up a notch and sarcastically sport two extra-special Christmas sweaters to our lunch festivities.

Brittany's grandma, Lola, had recently given her the two sweaters, disclaiming that Brittany "might be out and about a bit more and need them."

Thoughtful, yes. The problem? Let's start with the looming sequin tree dominating the front of the boxy, thick red fabric; the star made a precise nipple bull's eye. And the decorative jingle bells. And the silver tinsel. And. And. And.

It felt a little National Lampoonish (where grandma wraps up her live cat as a present). Yet Lola, 80, was distinctly no Griswold. In fact, when she gave Brittany the sweaters, she, herself, was wearing skinny jeans under knee-high boots and a classy white blouse with a subtle holly embroidered on the collar.

Curious.

Thinking about it, we'd never seen Lola wear anything like the nipple-star sweater. She looked like a movie star, from her still-pristine complexion to her signature necklace -- a cross that rivals 50 Cent, formed out of all of her old wedding bands ("reshaped into love for Jesus"). The exact number of diamonds is unclear, but let's just say any self-respecting rapper would be glittering with envy. I know I was.

Trying to piece this growing mystery together, Brittany and I began tracing back the gifts her grandma had given her over the years.

It started with a calculator with multi-colored gemstones instead of numbers. ("Probably why I'm so bad at math today," Brittany explains.) Then there were the purple bedazzled sunglasses with lenses in the shape of butterflies.

"These reminded me of something you might like," Lola had told Brittany.

When Brittany received a shapeless mauve winter jacket one year, Brittany noticed her grandma was wearing a fitted, trendy, double-breasted military-style coat. Then two years ago,

Lola gifted two ballcaps, smothered and heaving in multi-colored sequins because "I thought these might be of use to you."

We had laughed it off as just one of those bizarre gifts that grandmas give.

But on this day, at Heaven's Dragon Gate Golden Red Lotus, I looked at what Brittany was wearing -- underneath her sparkling jinglesweater: a royal blue dress from Forever 21, with a modest scattering of sequins on the shoulders.

That's when a woman about Lola's age walked past our table and looked us up and down, in unmasked horror.

Lola had never been spotted in sequins or insect-shaped sunnies. She wore over-the-knee boots three years before they hit the runways, military-style jackets and classy blouses. "These reminded me of something you might like." "I thought these might be of use to you."

Oh, my Golden Girls. Heavens to Betsy. I gasped.

Here we thought we were so hilarious, wearing Lola's ugly Christmas sweaters out to lunch. But this chic grandma was the one really laughing. At her granddaughter's garish style. Her gifts over the years had actually been gags.

And that's how we got punked by an 80-year-old.

Photo by Flickr user Robby Mueller.

Sometimes it's just sexier to be fake

The fire tickled the fresh-cut logs, as the scent of isolation painted the cabin with cozy stillness.

My new husband and I, obnoxiously sappy amid the first 48 hours of our marriage, stepped over the threshold (a word only acknowledged by new brides, never to be used again) of the mountain retreat that was our honeymoon.

Visions of sugarplums, porch swings, bird songs and calling each other "schmoopy" in the shadows of the fireplace danced through my head. No cell service or Internet. Just a stack of books, a teapot, my beloved and... two terrified eyes gaping at me from a decapitated head that had been nailed to the wall.

It wasn't the remnants of a voodoo ceremony or an ancient Roman battle. It was a bobcat. And an elk. And a deer. And a zoo of hunting trophies, paralyzed in their death for decorative purposes.

Now, I'm not committed enough to be an activist or rich enough to be a Boulderite or a vegan. I grew up in the mountains and learned how to brandish a shotgun before I could dress myself.
I've killed a snake with a shovel and eaten elk jerky and even Rocky Mountain oysters.

I just think it's gross to hang them on my body.

Decorating your house with preserved carcasses is like wearing a real fur coat or snakeskin boots. My closet is more sparkly and impractical than a Vegas showgirl's bustier, but it is not deceased. I own a floor-length faux fur black cape, a fake fur hand muff, and I recently acquired an Urban Outfitters coat made entirely out of fake feathers (which, according to the drunk guys who stopped me on New Year's Eve, actually looks like woolly mammoth or perhaps pterodactyl).

My closet boasts more faux leather skirts and corsets than food crumbs stuck in all of the Hell's Angels' beards combined. And I have enough fake snakeskin to clothe a fake python long enough to fake squeeze a fake elephant to fake death -- and subsequently enough of said elephant's imitation ivory jewelry to build a tower for at least half of Boulder to sit in.

My statement isn't political; it's fashionable. We are not cavemen, so we have options to not have to rub against rotting bones, flesh and fur of dead animals. Why don't we crystallize livers and hang them from our earlobes, or concoct an entire dress out of meat slabs? Oh wait, Lady Gaga did.

Let me explain something here.

When I first met my husband, before that one day I used the word "threshold," his mutt of a dog, Stitch, was almost a deal-breaker. Stitch is like Pig-Pen from Charlie Brown, except instead of dust, she constantly walks in a cloud of white dog fluff. If I try to sweep up her hair, before I get to the dustpan, the hair has already regenerated in every corner -- even if Stitch is locked outside. She actually drops tiny hair seed pods, which procreate when they touch oxygen and then multiply exponentially, like Gremlins, or H1N1, or the terrifying trend of jeggings.

More than half of my waking hours are spent trying to escape animal fur; the idea of intentionally swathing my body with it makes me twitch.

I am sure there are more profound reasons to protest fur apparel, just like I'm sure Lady Gaga had some underlying sanity to her bloody steak suit. But for me, I've got enough leverage to stand my ground on the mere evolution out of the Neanderthal and into a species with more options, and better-smelling synthetics. Ones that don't spy on you with shell-shocked, frozen eyeballs while you're trying to get your honeymoon on.

Perverted bobcats.

Clayton: Grin and beard it

Mustaches aren't funny anymore. There. I said it.

No more mustache theme parties. No more moustachio-etched coffee mugs or pink stick-on crumb-catchers. I am calling for an end to 'stachical jewelry and stickers, and even requesting the removal of all mustache tattoos on the inside of the pointer finger. I never want to see another sarcastic soup-strainer, I swear. Even though they still make me chuckle. At some point, the nose bug has to lose its funny.

Doesn't it?

Why does the fuzzy upper lip tickle me so, metaphorically and literally? Perhaps it's a passive anti-bourgeoisie statement (because everyone knows all bosses have mustaches, even the women). The nose-tickler denotes control: Hulk Hogan, Magnum P.I., Josef Stalin. Could there be some underlying rebellion rising with this unstoppable trend?

Or is facial hair just plain amusing?

Supporting the latter is my friend Clayton. His wife, Alex, wanted him to grow Elvis sideburns. He wanted a Groucho Marx. The end result was a hybrid of the two, a sort of Sgt. Floyd Pepper from the Muppets. A burnstache. Mustchops.

Clayton grew in a wee soul patch under his bottom lip, just to get wild. He ended up with hair everywhere except his lower jawbones, or the opposite of K-Fed's famous pencil-thin, chin-strap (also known as the "douche beard"). When asked about his unique scruff, Clayton explained that it had been "originally popularized by a U.S. president in the 1800s," if a trend can still be considered popularized 200 years later.

Coincidentally -- purely -- Clayton is also beardbald on his lower jaw area. As far as I can tell, most guys suffer this ailment, where a peculiar patch on their face has zero hair follicles. My husband's is next to his left ear, which results in one Vanilla Ice sideburn, with lines and zigzags naturally shaved in. This has not, however, stopped him from occasionally growing them out.

The plus side: I never have to fear my man attempting the lumberjack fave: mutton chops.

Options for facial hair designs are only limited by a man's imagination (well, and his blank spots).

In a "quest for every beard," blogger Jon Dyer experimented with 42 different scruff styles (dyers.org/blog/beards/beard-types), including a few rarer species, such as the Hollywoodian (mustache-beard sans sideburns). Dyer calls himself an annual winter beard-wearer and active celebrator of not only Octobeard and No Shave November, but also December's MaBeGroMo (Macho Beard Growing Month, which he created himself).

"Growing a beard is one of the simplest, zero-effort, macho things you can do," he writes on his blog.

When selecting your beard style, experts recommend complimenting your face shape. Let it grow for two weeks, and then re-examine your creation, according to eHow.com. At this point, the Web site says, you will have experience two bouts of itching and you possibly look homeless.

Considering your follicular strengths, choose a style. A weak stache? Opt for the Lincoln. Bare cheeks? A goatee is your friend.

Are your strengths on the edges of your face? If so, grow it long and flowy, a la Amish, or if you want to get beat up all the time, step into the chin strap. Feeling innovative? Shave everything except the edges, sideburns and then shave your head, except for your bangs. Voila -- you've mastered the Hair Ring of Fire. I'm pretty sure that was popularized by a red-headed U.S. Secretary of State in the 1700s.

With options like that, how can anyone ever laugh at Tom Selleck again?

Important vocabulary
Increase your knowledge and impress your friends by incorporating these terms into your daily life. Source: Urbandictionary.com.

Stache-ism: Prejudice or discrimination toward individuals with mustaches.

Beard Goggles: When you see a man with a beard, and you automatically think that person is awesome, funny, chill or just an overall cool dude just because he has a beard.

Beard of Shame: The beard that a man will grow after his girlfriend has broken up with him.

Photo by Bill Hogan.

How dresses can be good for your mental health

My baby twirls.

Granted, it is a slow, wobbly circle that usually ends with her tumbling down and injuring her head. But it is clear that Bettie Anne has the Twirling Instinct.

That's what I focus on. Not the impossible fact that she's almost 1. Why is she growing up? I told her not to. She didn't listen. I think I need to ground her.

Rumor is she even has teeth in there, but I don't know how many. I don't want to know. Because big girls have teeth, and since she was just born yesterday, she can't be a big girl yet.

She walks. Like a mature homo sapiens -- all upright and stuff. We went shopping on Saturday, and she walked through the store and got lost and confused under a clothing rack. This is also very peculiar since she is only three days old.

I am going to have another talk with Bettie tonight and explain to her why she needs to stop getting all grown up. Eleven months and 21 days is sufficient. Good job. She can stop now. Thanks.

Don't get me wrong. I adore the little lady she has become, especially how she rubs her hands together like she is washing them, and how she added in the cheerleader-style spirit fingers to the hand's-up "touchdown" move that Dad taught her for the Superbowl. My heart melts when she rocks her baby-doll while barking like a dog (like a poodle-mommy hybrid), and how she helps me do the laundry by pulling every single item out of all of the drawers.

I proudly watch my baby beginning to make sense out of the machine that we call Earth, but I warn her not to make too much sense out of things, because the unexplainable and indefinable parts are the most interesting.

Any parent knows it's incredible watching your baby define her personality and interests and abilities. And in all practicality, dresses fall much more gorgeously when they aren't bunched up around an immobile infant's milk-logged neck. A two-legged human being means no more dress folds. It means my daughter can experience the magical, floating feeling of a skirt twirling around her legs -- one of our first encounters with creating beauty.

I remember shortly after her birth (the superlative encounter with creating beauty), I was stuck in ICU. I couldn't hold her because I had lost too much blood to move my arms, and I had a thick transfusion tube implanted in my jugular, so I couldn't move my head. Bettie wasn't supposed to be there with me because it was dangerous for a preemie. But a nurse sneaked her down and placed her on my chest.

I remember whispering stuff into her hairy little ears (because she was born with hair on her ears like a monkey), and I told her things that we would do together. Some day, we would go to the park and dance and sing and sit under an apple tree. I told Bettie about twirling and tried to explain its significance, like how it creates a 360-degree, ever-rotating perspective shift and is such a pure form of pleasure. You should make sure you twirl at least three times every day, otherwise you could lose your grip on unreality, I explained.

Now, my baby twirls. All on her own.

I wonder if she absorbed what I told her. Maybe she's trying to show me that we made it; all of the promises I made her are coming true.

We have so much to celebrate on this first birthday. I know that. Remind me again. No dress folds, no dress folds, no tears, silly mama.

I think I need to commit to an extra 21 twirls every day this month. Because my perspective seems to be stuck looking backward.

Photo by Iman Woods.

Surely, this is what the Buddha meant by aesthetic, right?

Every day, my life forces me to practice wabi-sabi.

This Japanese concept is essentially the appreciation of flawed beauty. The acknowledgment that nothing lasts, nothing is finished and nothing is perfect -- and that very simplicity is profoundly fascinating and interesting.

Wabi-sabi is the green satin A-line skirt that my friend Laura sewed me for my 30th birthday.
It is the slightly scuffed-up pink pearl necklace I discovered at an estate sale. It is the wrinkles framing my eyes, the dirt on a freshly plucked carrot, the dried sweet potatoes on my daughter's left temple after a particularly enthusiastic dinner and the yellowing pages that break out of old books.

Wabi-sabi is a reminder that everything is fleeting, and that decay is woven into growth. Wabi-sabi is that which is asymmetrical, imperfect, incomplete and impermanent.

Which, incidentally, is how I would describe my husband's latest "creation."

My first encounter with this object was in the kitchen. For some reason, it was drying on the stovetop: a shiny silver 1-foot-tall statue of a flying hotdog on a triangular podium.
So many thoughts raced through my mind.

Oh, so many.

My emotions oscillated between confusion and delight, and then intense hope, that this special piece would not be our new roommate. For like a flying hotdog it did not look, but rather like a metallic banana in a thin bowl, or a fat snake inside a large contact lens, or fill in the blank with awkwardly phallic entities of corresponding shapes; please don't make me say it.

I was relieved when my husband explained that this statue would soon be awarded to his friend Jeff, who won the fantasy football recital show contest try-outs, or something involving sportive activities and thereby completely confusing to me. Turns out, the fake football troupe was called the Flying Hotdog Circus, and the statue was intended to be a spoof of the Lombardi Trophy. I didn't get the joke. But I did get that the manicotti tube in a clamshell would be leaving my house, so I smiled.

The next day, my husband had moved the trophy to the top of the refrigerator so the final layer of spray-paint could dry. The day after that, the trophy sat on the sidewalk in front of our house; another layer, for good luck.

A few days later, my husband came running in the house, moaning, "Oh no, oh no" like a little kid, juggling about 50 silver chunks. While adding yet another layer of paint, a corner of the base had crumbled off and the statue had toppled out of his hands onto the cement.

We would obviously have to super-glue it all back together, he explained. Obviously.

It took four tubes of epoxy, which my dad says can hold train cars together, but apparently not a clay hotdog wing. Five tubes. Two more layers of paint, now as structural support instead of aesthetic. By now, the trophy was missing many major components, the wings looked veiny with fault lines and the once-triangular base now resembled a tower of rubble.

I came home yesterday, and this time the statue was drying in the middle of the kitchen table. I went to move it so I could get ready for dinner.

Uh.

It didn't move.

That is when it came to my attention that my husband had accidentally super-glued the flying hotdog trophy to our kitchen table.

So many thoughts raced through my mind. Oh, so many.

Wabi-sabi. Wabi-sabi. I repeated the words like a mantra, reminding myself to enjoy the flawed beauty that was now our dining centerpiece.

Asymmetrical. Imperfect. Incomplete.

But unfortunately, in this instance, God help me and have mercy on my soul, not impermanent.