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.
 
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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.

What happens when two artists create a human?

I don't know a thing about kids, but what my 18-month-old daughter does with a paper and pen seems weird to me.

First of all, she thinks Crayons and markers are stupid, and she demands a ballpoint pen (which is obviously an eyeball-poking hazard, but remember, I don't know anything about kids). Then she puts her face 1 inch from the paper and draws -- for like an hour or more, uninterrupted -- the tiniest, most intricate loops and swirls that I've ever seen. No scribbling. Just these hyperfocused hieroglyphics that are probably the key to the center of the Earth.

As a mom, I'd like to assume this means my kid is a savant whose incredible brain capacity future generations will study in awe -- and not a future serial killer, the line between which is terrifyingly fine.
But the truth is probably somewhere in between the two extremes, and she's probably just copying what she sees around the house.

As a geriatric Luddite at heart who doesn't "trust that gosh-darned modern technology," combined with my complete lack of any short-term memory whatsoever, I write everything down. The only way that I can remember to feed and water myself, much less do grown-up things like "keep my kid alive" and "wash my face," is to follow a stack of extensive to-do lists.
And my husband is an artist. He has covered nearly every inch of our house, his body, my body and the backs of all of my to-do lists with sketches and tattoos and doodles and masterpieces.

So as far as little Bettie Anne knows, the pen is an extension of the human hand. If I could read Baby, I bet I'd find she's making to-do lists about how she needs to draw more.

Either that, or she's doing long-hand calculus and physics equations. You know, just to spite her mathematically disabled parents. Rebelliousness also runs in the fam.

Here's a story problem for you: What kind of daughter do you get if you mix an artistic Cuban family with a carpenter dad who always brings his blueprints, sketches and wood tools home?

You get a jewelry genius, that's what.

Her name is Lorena Marañn, and she moved to Boulder from Miami last year. Marañn, 22, creates unique necklaces, bracelets, earrings and military-style shoulder pads (my favorite) out geometric-patterned hand-embroidered wearable art.

The bright colors are inspired by Cuban music, food and culture. The sharp patterns are inspired by her dad, who she says taught her about shapes and lines and how they can be manipulated.

Marañn Jewels (maranonjewels.com) are available online and in Fancy Tiger in Denver, and she's looking to offer her line in Boulder County soon.

Although each piece takes as long as several full days to even a month to hand-make, Marañn keeps the price point low, from $30 to $150.

"People have told me I'm underpricing my pieces because it takes so long, but I think that things like this should be available to everybody, because I don't come from a very wealthy family," she says.

Marañn taught herself how to do needlework after she lost her job and picked up a kit at a thrift store. She began selling her art on Etsy.com two years ago, but did well enough to start her own online store and pursue the passion full-time.

She admits her family -- "very humble, nonconformist, and a line of a lot of artists" -- played a big role in her growing into the artist she is today.

"They showed me that I could find happiness and a good life through art," she says

Link:
http://www.dailycamera.com/ci_18929691

Photo by Iman Woods Creative.

The alpaca approach

While the rest of the universe watched the Oscars, we watched Oscar the Alpaca.

Instead of a red carpet, we pranced on a dusty arena at the Boulder County Fairgrounds in Longmont. Instead of designer gowns, we flipped through racks of sweaters, hats and spools of yarn made out of the coats of local alpacas.

It was glamorous.

Granted, I needed to shower when I got home. But glamorous.

Before you punch me in the neck, consider this: The average alpaca's eyelashes are six times fuller than the longest eyelash extensions on a Hollywood star. Alpaca fiber is hypoallergenic and silky, so it won't leave you itchy and bumpy like wool. (More than one-third of Americans surveyed by the International Wool Secretariat said they were allergic to wool.) A fancy male alpaca can sell for upwards of half a million dollars. And alpacas look like huge awesome poodles, according to my daughter while barking at the Alpaca Extravaganza, organized by the Alpaca Breeders Alliance of Northern Colorado.

Although I made up the eyelash statistic purely to start rumors by cut-and-paste-type readers who are too lazy to read a full article, the other junk is true. And although I'm not the type of gal to fester in fairgrounds dirt, I am a fabric whore and an alpaca aficionado.

Hence: Oscar.

When I was a young whippersnapper and I had a bad day, I used to drive 30 minutes to the Stargazer Alpaca Farm in Loveland and park near the barn. Like a total creeper, I sat in my car and just listened to the way-too-human humming sounds that these Muppet-lookalike creatures made. Without fail, their singing, paired with their appearance, make me laugh until tears were racing down my cheeks. Even today, a Youtube video called "Alpaca Approach" is saved as my home page. If you can watch this without chuckling, your soul is a rotten banana and you are the devil himself.

Alpacas are the most unintentionally hilarious creatures on Earth, and they're soft and warm and nice and they look like big awesome poodles. No many how many awards, "Black Swan" simply cannot compete.

Here's my favorite way to cover your life in alpaca.

The Alpaca Connection on Pearl Street in Boulder, for high-quality alpaca sweaters, coats and accessories. According to the store, alpaca hair is two and a half times warmer than sheep wool, is water repellent and less likely than cashmere to pill or wrinkle.

My pick: A mid-shin-length white pea coat, the Carmen, originally $900, marked down to $600.

Tip: Ask about ordering a custom-tailored coat.

More info: thealpacaconnection.com.

Photo by Flickr user Shelby PDX.

Katie: Cowgirl for a day

My redhead friend, Katie, walks her own fashion path. And I have reason to believe that path was at least partially forged to spite me.

Our first meeting, an ominous beginning, set a precedent for our friendship and for Katie's future choices, from her talent in math to her love for polar fleece -- both of which strike utter fear in my soul.

Katie was the new girl in third grade, a particularly challenging position in our small, mountain-town elementary school where everyone had known everyone and their moms and horses and ducks since birth (or hatching, as it were). Few new faces ever moved to this part of the world on purpose. We'd all been cast there by crazy cowboy fathers, hippie mamas and general bad luck.

So when Katie walked into the classroom -- all orange hairy and freckled amid many dark-haired Native American peers -- I didn't want to make fun of her. But I guess I just had to. In the same way that the A-dog nips or tries to dominate a new puppy at the dog park, I tried to mark Katie.

"Your shoes are dumb." (They were white with brand-newness and obviously awesome, so I knew this was the most direct route.) "Jem and the Holograms aren't cool anymore." (They obviously were and still are today.)

At this crucial juncture in her youth, Katie had the choice to crumble or kick. She chose the third option: to crimp.

"You don't crimp your hair? That's weird." Zing.

We immediately became best friends, even sharing a boyfriend (Burke silently held my hand during morning recess, and then stood in Katie's general vicinity at lunch). The glory of crimp became the first of many lessons from Katie.

She taught me that you can get tanned, and by tanned, I mean seared like an overdone steak, by slathering your body with vegetable oil and lying out on the scorching tin barn roof. She taught me that it was stupid to cry when she spat crackers in my perfectly Aqua-netted cinnamon roll bangs, even though there was no way I could possibly get the crumbs out without destroying my coif.

In high school, she taught me about personalized license plates ("4-H Queen"), and how empowering it feels to cruise around Loveland in a massive lifted Chevy truck. Katie taught me about tight cowgirl jeans and that you can still feel feminine, even while shoveling horse manure, if you talk about "Dirty Dancing."

Now that we're old and have our own daughters, Katie has taught me that some people ride bikes for fun (not just because they lost their license because of a DUI), and that there is a whole line of shoes with "flat soles" (try to imagine the stiletto part broken off), and that some women consider lululemon an entire clothing group in and of itself, despite its lack of ruffles.

All of these lessons I would have never learned without my redhead. That's because, even to this day, we remain polar (fleece) opposites.

I'd like to think she learned a few things from me, too. But honestly, I think what I left her with was the decision, at age 8, to be nothing like me whatsoever. In other words, the freedom to pursue her own path. In other-other words, the easiest way to stop the A-dog from mounting you is to run the other way. And fast. But make it look like a game.

Photo by Flickr user mikebaird.

Sometimes it's OK to be an adorable little nugget

My 16-month-old daughter is obsessed with a leopard-print satin scarf. She drapes is around her neck and tosses one end over her shoulder. She presses its softness against her cheek and holds it between her tiny fingertips.

She has preferences now.

The other day, Bettie Anne picked out red sparkly shoes, a pink floral-print sundress and, of course, the leopard-print scarf to wear to the park. The combo was risky, yet fashionably brilliant.

I wanted to say (while clapping and jumping), "Oh my goodness! Look at you, you adorable little nugget!"

Instead, I said something like, "Wow, Bettie. The choices you made display adventurous creativity, as well as respectable practicality; the scarf is an intelligent choice because, in addition to boasting a visually stimulating pattern, it will help protect your neck from UV rays. And well done on using multiple facets of your brain to achieve this level of self-expression. You are an intelligent and capable woman who is worthy of respect and so much greater than your physical beauty -- which is undeniable, yet only a fraction of your identity and value."

In response, she yelled "Hi!" and then ran off to pull the dog's hair.

Trying to raise a healthy daughter is like putting together a puzzle blind, with no hands, on the Mind Eraser roller coaster while the pieces keep falling away. Summed up in three words, it feels like: "Expert. Moron. Repeat."

According to ABC News, nearly half of 3- to 6-year-old girls worry about being fat. A recent column in the Huffington Post revealed that 25 percent of young American women would rather win "America's Next Top Model" than the Nobel Peace Prize.

"Teaching girls that their appearance is the first thing you notice tells them that looks are more important than anything," wrote author Lisa Bloom in the article. "It sets them up for dieting at age 5 and foundation at age 11 and boob jobs at 17 and Botox at 23."

Interesting theory. But it's not as simple as calling every little girl smart instead of cute.

I happen to think that beauty is not an evil or shallow thing. After all, wouldn't strong confidence in your individual beauty from day one help counteract society's confusing messages about dieting and plastic surgery?

The problem is our definition of "beauty" -- and calling a child beautiful if you think that beauty means conforming and disrespecting your body is sending the wrong message.

But if your baby girl knows that beauty is in the unpredictable way the clouds morph around a full moon, and in the way that the red canyon rocks reach toward the sun, and in the way her nose crinkles when she laughs -- in addition to the rituals of taking care of your skin and loving your body by filling it with healthy food that will fuel the day's adventures -- then damn straight, she is the most beautiful thing in the world. And damn straight, I'm going to tell her.

Little girls worry about being fat because their moms worry that they look fat. Not because anyone called a girl an adorable little nugget instead handing her a dictionary.

I think of the book, "Captivating: Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman's Soul," by John and Stasi Eldredge. About women, the book asserts: "We desire to possess a beauty that is worth pursuing, worth fighting for, a beauty that is core to who we truly are. We want beauty that can be seen; beauty that can be felt; beauty that affects others; a beauty all our own to unveil."

Strength in her own unique beauty. That is what I wish for my daughter. And that does not minimize or objectify her any more than it diminishes the ocean to admire its surging waves.

The next time Bettie picks out that satin scarf, I want to let her know, unapologetically, how beautiful it looks. Because Mama's Little Girl will always know that beauty is as deep as you let it be.

Although I'm not going to lie: I'll still probably slip in a little promotion for its UV protection factor. And maybe the word "facet," just to keep her vocabulary challenged. To prepare her for her Nobel Peace Prize speech some day.

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