dressedinpeace-blog

[dressedinpeace-blog]

Grateful This Shirt Is Now Dead: Dava Krause

I bought it at “Graphically Speaking” on Lancaster Pike in Ardmore, PA. It would complete my fashion trifecta. A “Co-Ed Naked Lacrosse” T-shirt (Rough, tough and in the Buff), a pair sweet Umbros that stuck to my chubby little thighs and my beloved Tie-Dyed Grateful Dead T-Shirt.

My Dead T-shirt is huge and hangs limply around my torso giving me no discernable shape. But that was the style back then. You’d buy a shirt way too big and then gather it up on one side securing it with a plastic clip thingy or you’d just tuck into the front of your shorts leaving the back long and flowing.

My best friend had a Grateful Dead Tee that a lot of people had. Tie-Dyed with the infamous bears swirling inward into a vortex. I vaguely knew this image alluded to the fact that fans of The Dead took drugs that made you see stuff. But that was the extent of it. I avoided the bears because I wanted to be unique but stuck with something Tie-Dyed so as not to be too unique. (AKA; a dorcus malorcus)

The font of my shirt reads “Garcia on Broadway” and features a dragon in a top hat and cane. At the time, it was the perfect combination of trendy fashion item and opportunity to announce my undying love for Broadway. I was a major fan. It was kind of “my thing”.

As I described it just now, I had to really look at the shirt. I don’t often do that. It’s just one of those things I grab out of my drawer, smell, look around to see if anyone saw me smell it, (they did, but are too freaked out to say anything) and put on.

As the years passed, I kept it in my drawer and used it as a shirt I slept in. When I finally figured out whom the fuck The Dead were and had experienced some of the previously mentioned hallucinatory drugs, it became special on a whole other level. Sure, it was cheesy and I would never wear it in public. But by this time, it was just a permanent part of my wardrobe and hands down the softness goddamn t-shirt I owned.

The armpits are ripped. It has stains on it from three different apartments that I’ve painted and then lived in. It’s gotten pretty disgusting.

Recently my husband told me he, “always hated that shirt.” And in fact, “when you wear it, my penis literally goes inside my body.” Wow. Tell me how you really feel about it.

So, after almost twenty years of service, I must say, “so long” to my oh-so-comfy tee. I can’t throw it in the trash. I’m taking it to Goodwill. I hope a chubby young theater nerd finds it and takes it on a long strange trip with them. Or at least some homeless guy gets to experience its delightful softness.

[dressedinpeace-blog]

When I was six, I was obsessed with my babysitter Paula’s style. She always wore her hair in parted, feathered waves courtesy of the Goody candy-colored comb she carried in the back pocket of her cut off, high-waisted jeans. She had every color/flavor Bonne Bell Lip Smackers. Paula was the epitome of 1980 cool.

I was convinced Paula was friends with the whole cast of my fave sitcom Three’s Company, especially the oft-braless, pig-tailed Chrissy, because Paula had the same kind of totally boss Candie’s slides that Chrissy did. When she came over to babysit me, Paula would help me paint my toes with Avon’s “Cherries In The Snow” and talk to me about all the boys who asked her out. I would nod my head and debate their merits with her extensively. Once, she even let me try on her Candie’s (which I coveted openly). I wobbled around my house like Bambi did immediately after being born on my gangly toothpick legs before getting the hang of my first pair of high heels. And while I was sure to have been goofily prancing in a manner that would make RuPaul herself shriek, the very kind Paula assured me I looked “foxy”. It was a major life moment for me.

Cut to 2000, my second year in New York City. Patricia Field shod Carrie Bradshaw in satin short shorts and vintage Candie’s, and suddenly every 20 year old (and many a 40 year old who should have known better) were snatching up the re-iusses Candie’s put out. Even though I was quite literally starving my way through grad school, I managed to weasel a pair for myself by lurking in Filene’s Basement, beating off crafty drag queens for the giant size my clodhoppers required. My Candie's slides were lime green suede, with realistic-looking wood (which was actually slippery plastic). The minute I bought them, I felt a rush of achievement: I had completed my cool quest! I planned to bust out the Candie's to single-handedly bring back my two favorite fashion looks: the aforementioned Chrissy from Three’s Company and Olivia Newton John in Xanadu. I was going to ROCK. THOSE. SHOES.

The truth of the matter is, as you'll see, a little less late 70’s, early 80’s glam.

The Candie’s slides' maiden voyage took place as I headed out on the town for a hot second date. Prior to my rendezvous with a gentleman caller, I wisely met up with friends, drank an entire bottle of champagne and scarfed down Taco Bell. I thought this was totally funny- trashy ‘n’ classy, amirite?!? My date, who waited for my drunk, Mexican Pizza reeking ass alone at a bar for a full hour, didn’t (did I mention he didn’t drink? Oops). Since I was/am totally mature, I refused to apologize, then told him to beat it because he was ruining my night, then casually made out with someone else, and concluded by managing to fall out of/off of the slides at least three times while dancing like an asshole, twisting my ankle on the final dismount and ripping the rubber cap off the heel of one of the shoes. The Candie’s debut ended inauspiciously, with them shoved into the vortex known as “that bag to go to the cobbler”.

And there the shoes sat. They came along for my eventual move from Manhattan to Brooklyn, where they finally made it to that cobbler for a heel cap repair (NOTE: only because I lived next door to a cobbler on Smith Street, as I am supremely lazy). Even after only donning them once in the four years I had now owned them, I was convinced these shoes were going to come in handy to complete one of my many AMAZING disco revival outfits, or offset my eBay collection of E.L.O. T-shirts. Not so much.

Every time I weeded out my closet in the following years, I knew the Candie’s should probably go. Their faded suede was now more of a puke green than a lime one. The fake-wood plastic was grimy with age. But letting go of my sparkly sequined dreams of growing up to be the stone cold disco teen I was cruelly born a generation too late to be, kept getting in the way of my common sense. I refused to ditch my ticket to Foxy-town, puke green or no.

I did, in fact, manage to find a way to wear the shoes one more time, albeit for about 4 minutes…as part of a trailer trash, stripper Mom character I played for a Montreal Comedy Festival audition. Let’s just say neither I, nor the shoes cut the mustard that time around. I’m embarrassed to admit that instead of taking them off and stuffing them into the trash the minute I left the stage, I KEPT THEM. I know, I know. The clearly cursed Candie’s were banished to molder in two more Brooklyn closets over 2 more Brooklyn moves. Last month, my husband and I were cleaning before a party, and one of the puce nightmares tumbled out. I fondly gazed upon the now 11 year old shoe, and even moved to pick it up and put it back when I realized…disco is dead.

Goodbye, my beloved Candie’s lime green slides. You were the primary icon of disco teen sex goddess to me, and I strove to achieve that look & ideal, with your help (and admittedly mixed results). You served me and my love of the music of Chic, S.O.S. Band, and Sylvester oh, so well. Okay, actually you totally shit the bed not ONCE, but TWICE. But I still loved you, even then! Having you in my life after longing over you since I was a scrawny little tomboy made me feel, just for second, like I could have held it down way back in 1980 with my superstar, glam babysitter (and first girl crush) Paula. Now, let's dance the last dance.

[dressedinpeace-blog]

Bye Baaaa Sweater: Elena Pellegrino If you went to college in the mid 90's in the Northeast, there were a few staple items every female college student needed to have in her closet: 1) a "drug rug" AKA as a Baja hoodie. Even if you weren't listening to Phish and the smoking weed, it was still cool to own one. 2) a wool patterned sweater. But not just any pattern. It was THE pattern. Below you will see THE pattern and it will all come back to you. Right? Malls across America carried these sweaters, along with matching gloves, hats, etc. I had to have this sweater. I searched high and low for it with a blue pattern. Then one day, I found my gold at the end of the rainbow. I remember spending about $35 for what ended up being the itchiest item one could ever wear. Not only that, but I'd certainly attract men that had a thing for farm animals since I reeked of a sheep and sweated my ass off at crowded college parties. Sure the sweater is warm as heck. But have I worn this since 1996? No. Is it in my closet because one day I may have the urge to smell like a farm. Probably not. I think it remains there (taking up quite a bit of space, mind you) out of pure sentimental reasons. I think it is time to say good-bye to you, good ol' itchy-smelly-heavy sweater. I can take a photo, save some closet space and not have flashbacks my 5th grade field trip to Macomber Farm each time I open my closet.

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The Hawaiian Shirt: George Gordon

For some odd reason I have this mild obsession with straight up white trash clothing. Maybe living in Tennessee for as long as I did or having friends from small towns or whatever there is something about a sweet western shirt or a t-shirt with an old school Coors logo. Not sure why, but I love it.

One of my favorite things to wear is Hawaiian shirts. The thing about them is they have to be trashy looking and vintage. To new of a Hawaiian shirt looks tacky. Every time I wear one I feel like I'm about to go hang out with Burt Reynolds (70s Burt Reynolds - cowboy hat, porn stache).

About 8 years ago I was living in Memphis and my roommate Grant and I for the Fourth of July said we were going to have a keg party. Seeing that it was the celebration of our nation's birthday what better way to celebrate than to have matching Hawaiian shirts.

Now this sort of thing takes some serious leg work. We weren't just looking for one sweet Hawaiian shirt, we needed two. And not only did they need to be bad ass they needed to match (the types of things you worry about when you are 22).

After unsuccessfully going to a few stores we stopped at the mecca of all white trashness, Walmart.  Why didn't we think of this sooner. It's Walmart, of course they would have Hawaiian shirts. And of course they would have two that matched. AND THEY DID!

Grant bought the red one, I bought the blue one. Time to tap this keg!

Grant is a very successful businessman in Nashville, TN with a wife and two children and I'm pretty sure his Hawaiian shirt is probably somewhere in a landfill in TN. Me on the other hand not only do I still have mine but I still wear it. And not only do I still wear it I still wear it on July 4th.Tradition.

I have to get rid of it.

[dressedinpeace-blog]

Leather Jacket With Shearling Collar: Giuila Rozzi

As a teen I was not a thrift store shopper. My extremely cautious and clean Italian mother made me weary of wearing used clothes because it "might have AIDS" (direct quote). While I knew apparel couldn't give me a terminal STD I was still turned off by thrifting mostly because I didn't feel like explaining to my mom where I got musty, tag-less, dress that is clearly from another era. Besides, the only Belmont High students who wore thrift store clothes were the unaffected artsy kids who wanted to be unique and I was a very affected secretly artsy kid who desperately wanted to be accepted by the popular JCrew wearing crowd.

Later, in college and more so in my twenties I began flirting with thrift stores in which I'd casually browse one a few times a year. I developed this weird luck where on my quarterly Goodwill trip I'd find the diamond in the rough (a special power I've also developed when hunting for parking spots). One of those gems was this jacket.

I saw it as soon as I entered the Salvation Army on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. It was 2007 and it was love at first site. The brown leather was this amazing rust shade that was made to compliment my skin tone. The fit was more flattering than I could have ever customized. And the fur collar gave it a fabulously feminine touch. I would have paid all I had for that jacket (which at the time was about $84 combined in my checking and savings) but it only cost $15. Who knew that a lifetime of stylish bliss would have such a tiny price tag?

This jacket and I immediately became a trendy team rocking the streets of Manhattan. People would stop me to ask where I scored such a sweet piece of fashion to which I'd reply "divine intervention" (okay I never said that but this jacket was so cool that it felt like some Touched By An Angel shiz had gone down). 

At an unstable time in my life, this jacket was something I could count on to make me feel good. Despite the fact that the leather on the back and shoulders began to tear, wearing this jacket still helped me pull myself together. I was in a relationship pass it's due date and about to expire, living in two cities and self medicating with late nights and bad decisions. But even after a late night of drinking or a morning of crying, this jacket paired with a wool cap masked any sign of unrest.

As the rips began to grow, I still wore it passing it off as "rugged." But by 2010 rugged looked more like ransacked. Hopeful that I would find a craftsman to repair it or a cool patch to cover the damage, I threw it in my closet but then last week I finally threw it in the garbage.

Goodbye sweet jacket, thanks for keeping me warm when I needed it most.