Real rewards

One of the prominent qualities of a true fashionista is the ability -- nay, the instinctual need -- to one-up.

You wear a feather in your hair. I wear an entire ball gown made out of feathers. To Walgreens.

You wear a trendy patch of lace on your sweatshirt. I wear more lace than a Mexican quinceanera: a purple seven-layer(-dip) lace skirt, black lace leggings, a gray lace corset-style blouse and a gray scarf. Too much? Nah, I scaled back and I left the lace wrist-length gloves at home. Ridiculous? Only if you're boring. I prefer fearless and fun.

So needless to say, when my husband achieved the master one-up on me, it sent me into an identity-crisis tizzy.

He put the card in my pants. How? How did he do it? And more importantly, how could I ever beat that?

The challenge began about a month ago in the queue at Big Lots in Longmont. Despite the Hub's intimidating appearance -- he towers above Too Tall Jones like a 7-foot-tall tattooed totem pole -- he, like most huge beasts, is extremely gentle. So much, in fact, that he could not say no to the elderly cashier when she asked him to sign up for a Big Lots Buzz Club Rewards card. Just spend something like $200 a Big Lots and you can redeem your 20-percent-off reward.

Gee whiz.

I understand a Walmart rewards card because it's impossible to walk out of that war zone without dropping $2,000, even if you just "run in" to "grab some batteries."

But is it even possible to spend $200 at Big Lots? I don't think the entire store of dinged-up junk amasses to 50 bucks. And if we were to somehow blow that much cash at Big Lots, 20 percent off is a totally sucky prize. I mean, isn't the premise of the store that everything is already discounted? So, what, after spending $200 I can get my toilet paper for $1.40 instead of $2 discounted from $5?

Obviously, I had to make fun of my husband, because I am as short as he is tall and everyone knows that short people are generally evil. To rub it in, I sneaked the Big Lots card into his car -- "Just in case you need it, sweetie."

Later that day, I found the card in my wallet. So I put it on his key chain. Without saying a word, he wedged the card into my lipstick.

Oh, hell no. Not the lipstick.

It was on.

He nearly choked on the card while popping sunflower seeds on our recent road trip. I nearly vomited when I found it at the bottom of my beer. Then it appeared stuck on the inside of my sunglasses, in the leg of his surfing wet suit, under his scrambled eggs, wedged inside my apple pie, in the left cup of my bra.

The card made it inside my book, inside his shoe, under my pillow and in the bag for my white Halloween wig.

I was impressed when he managed to affix it to my bobby pin while shopping in Vegas without me noticing. When he grew suspicious of my actions, I enlisted a friend to slip it in his right shorts pocket while we were dancing on Halloween. I thought the superlative was when I found the stupid card taped to my back; it had been there all day.

But then I found it in my pants.

This brought up all kinds of complicated emotions for me. How oblivious must I be to my surroundings if A) He had managed to accomplish this, and B) I had not noticed for I don't know how long. Not to mention the gross factor. He swore he'd disinfected it, but after the scrambled eggs and wet suit, I felt a little violated, I did.

Which brings us to today. I've been paining over how to get back at that sneaky freak of mine.

With the full acceptance that some things just can't be one-upped -- like, say, Gaga's dress made out of raw meat -- I wouldn't be true to myself if I didn't at least try.

Dear Husband, I hope you enjoy your lunch. I made that pizza just for you. Pick a slice, any slice. I call this game Russian Rewards Roulette.

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.

Brittany: The flow of fashion

Photo by Flickr user CastawayVintage.

My BFF Brittany was browsing through the racks at the Goodwill near her house when she came across the perfect red-and-black plaid jacket.

Granted, it was the middle of summer, and she wouldn`t be able to wear it until fall, but it was only a couple of bucks, super cute and it fit her perfectly. She eyed it in the dressing room mirror and stuck her hands in the pockets. The pockets weren`t empty.

She pulled out lipstick -- and did a double take. It was her exact shade, the tip even bearing her signature lip shape. (Lipsticks are like fingerprints for our mouths.) Could it be destiny?

Then she remembered she had a winter coat similar to this at home. Actually, no, identical. This was her coat. How did it get here? She didn`t remember selling it. She still liked it.

Obviously, right?

Now what? In an unsure daze, she decided not to buy the coat -- her own coat, again -- and instead called her dad to tell him the confusing coincidence.

He agreed it was pretty funny, and then casually mentioned, "Speaking of thrift stores, I went ahead and brought all of the clothes that you don`t want anymore to the Good Will."

"What clothes?"

"The ones in trash bags in the back of the spare closet."

Oh, those clothes. The seasonal winter clothes that Brittany had cleared out of her closet to make space for the summer stuff. The bags that contained her red and black plaid jacket.

They tried to buy her winter wardrobe back -- classifying the cost as a donation to the nonprofit -- but they never did track down the plaid coat again.

Which was just as well. Because by the time this fall rolls around, plaid will probably be out of style.

Read more at www.dailycamera.com.

'50s style goes to my head

My grandma washes her hair once a week. I now understand why.

I am recovering from a bouffant.

My mother-in-law turned 50 on Saturday. In celebration, we held her a ’50s-theme party, complete with an inflatable juke box, retro record decorations and sloppy joes from Barbecue Bob’s (yeah, I wasn’t quite sure how that fit in either, but no one complained – except me when I sloppy joed on my white apron. Yes, apron. Read on).

In typical overboard Heckel manner, my mom and I decided to get our hair professionally “did” at a Loveland salon, Serenity Hair Designs.

Four hours later, we fox-trotted out with flippy ends and roots ratted toward the heavens. My bouffant incorporated a thick headband. My mom’s: a droopy white bow. She rocked the bobby socks and canvas shoes, a swing skirt, pearls and a pink polka-dot scarf.

I accented my white eye shadow with a pleated, June Cleaver button-up dress and square-toed buckle shoes. I added a white apron for the funny factor (I don’t know how to serve cookies even if they come straight from the Safeway bakery).

I thought my costume was totally the cat’s pajamas.

Until several days later – still scraping the hairspray out of my locks – I stumbled upon www.fiftiesweb.com and learned my look was entirely ’60s. The fifties were soft, feminine and curly. No blow dryers and tangle towers.

Golly, if I’d known that then, maybe I could comb through my hair today.

I blame the inspiration for pouf-head on my gramma, who to this day sleeps in a satin cap as to not disturb her stiff hair-cocoon. She gets her tresses washed and formed at the parlor every Saturday. (By Friday afternoons, she’s usually reaching for a fork or candle snuffer to itch her scalp without disturbing the ‘fro.)

And after hours of cooking under the astronaut-helmet hair-dryer, I don’t blame her for trimming her beauty routine to a weekly affair.

Of course, unlike mine did, my gramma’s ‘do looks timelessly stunning. I can’t imagine her with any other style. It’d throw my world off axis, like when your teacher gets a bad haircut or when my dad shaved off his beard after 21 years.

Some styles should never change. And could it be that everything comes back in style if you just wait long enough?

Tell that to the poor kid at McDonald’s who was too confused to give me my soda on Saturday.
My husband was supposed to pick me and my mom up from the hair place, but he couldn’t find it. I sucked down a Diet Coke in about 8 seconds and therefore needed another one, so we told him to meet us under the nearby big yellow arch.

By how he scowled at me, I’d say the cash-register kid didn’t appreciate my ensemble. I wanted to grab him by the ears and ask him if his mama didn’t teach him no manners. That lil’ whippersnapper looked about 10 years old, anyway. Don’t know what they’re doing hiring toddlers. And the only straws left were too short for my cup. I almost asked for my 79 cents back.

Oh, heavens. My gramma’s hair has gone to my head.

Photo by Iman Woods.