The material

In the wake of the school massacre in Newtown, CT - just two towns from where I grew up in Ridgefield - like much of America and the world, I have many different emotions: grief, anger, sadness, and wonder at what has become of our country. And since about 2:30 am, I find myself thinking in images. 

I'm a deeply material person in many ways, prone to fall hard for beautiful things like Hermes scarves, handicrafts that demonstrate care and artistry such as intricately embroidered textiles from South Asia, and things that link us to the past, like my grandmother's journals, or even the field guide I once found at a church rummage sale, How to Know the Wildflowers, into which a young woman back in 1904 and 1905 pressed flower specimens and wrote marginal notes about where she found them, on drives through the back roads of Connecticut with someone (a beau?) identified only as "R."

As any parent of a young child knows, the material of kids is so very commonplace: we're often sighing to ourselves as we encounter another balled-up sock or make the mistake of stepping on a stray Lego piece without shoes on. We roll our eyes at the crumbs in the lunchboxes and wadded-up papers in their backpacks, the PTA forms we didn't know were there, the single Hello Kitty glove. We rush to get them out the door and onto the bus with their math homework sheets complete and initialed, and sometimes, in the cold, if we're lucky, we even convince them to zip up their bright coats. 

The mundane. The everyday "stuff" for many of us and our children. The very ordinary "stuff" that will forever mark the last day of those twenty first-graders. 

Since my cancer diagnosis two years ago, I've tried to remind myself (but on some days needed reminding) that every day is a gift and an opportunity to practice and express love, even in the face of this broken world. The mundane is its own gift; it tells us that things are right in our own houses, that our rhythms and routines are intact. 

At the bus stop this morning the sight of my daughter's green frog umbrella, with its big goofy, froggy grin, nearly undid me. She carried that umbrella in kindergarten and first grade, and second grade, and she hasn't grown too old or too cool for it yet, despite her pink hair and her braces. Stuff. 

As we're writing to our congressional representatives about gun control and mental health, let's also pause to celebrate the mundane stuff and to find the grace in everyday life. 

Edited 12/19/12 to add photo from March 2010.

Two years

When I was diagnosed with my brain tumor, I quickly decided - with the encouragement of a couple of friends - that I would not waste my time poking around online, looking at survival rates and tales of symptoms and the like. One quick look was enough to make me realize that doing so would be a sure path to madness, because by obsessing about my diagnosis, I'd be ignoring all of the other things that were good and right in my life.

As we all know by now, not everything on the internet is true. In the case of personal stories of cancer - or even population-level mortality rates - it's more that not everything on the internet is or will be true for me. A diagnosis, like BMI, is just one piece of the puzzle. It's information, but incomplete. 

The gray day I was diagnosed - October 12, 2010, sitting in neurosurgeon Peter Heppner's posh office at Ascot Hospital in Auckland, overlooking the Ellerslie Racecourse - I was strangely calm, but told Peter I hoped that when the time came, I'd meet it with grace. He assured me that we weren't there yet. Moreover, he told me about paleontologist/evolutionary biologist Stephen Jay Gould's excellent essay "The Median Isn't the Message," the main point of which is that statistics don't tell us everything, and even if the median survival time for a particular illness is short, there are people who live far beyond the curve, way out into its trailing right tail. This was true of Gould after his diagnosis with incurable mesothelioma, and I have every expectation and intention that it will be true of me, too. 

So I couldn't tell you what the 1-, 2-, and 5-year survival rates are for grade 2/3 oligodendrogliomas - but nonetheless, I am so, so happy to say that I have now passed that 2 year milestone. I still get anxious, of course, and my worries upon this last visit to the oncologist weren't helped by the fact that my allergies have been dreadful the past few months, leading to sinus pressure and weird twinges in my head. Plus, the lower lid of my left eye has been twitching (fatigue, plus I need an eye exam). And then I smelled burning rubber... (Time for a new flywheel and new tires!) Finally, my blood pressure was higher than it's been, but it seems like that probably has to do with the fact that I'm only just now returning to running...

But it was good news. I dressed up for my oncologist visit, as always. Since it's fall, I was able to rock a couple of older and a couple of newer seasonal secondhand purchases. 

Ruffled black silk blouse: Rendezvous for Paul & Joe Sister, eBay. 

Skirt: Nanette Lepore, Second Time Around. "Capelet": Trina Turk, Second Time Around, 2008. 

Boots: Sigerson Morrison, Into the Wardrobe. Bag: Gilda Tonnelli, Takapuna (NZ) consignment, 2010. 

One of the things I really love about that "capelet" is how "Sherlock"-y it looks. Benedict  Cumberbatch! What a name - it sounds like some old English nana's version of a cuss word - but what an actor. Moreover, I've been utterly smitten with supporting cast member Rupert Graves ever since he played Freddy Honeychurch in A Room with a View (link to a gay fan site; mildly NSFW). That floppy hair!

Life moves forward, then, and the world keeps turning; as I write, the winds and rain that signal the imminent arrival of Hurricane Sandy are growing stronger, so we're all hunkered down inside, anticipating the loss of electricity soon and enjoying a quiet day of puzzles, reading, tea, and napping. And the election is nearly upon us and I fear for us as a country, quite literally, not because I think Obama is so great but because the alternative seems so much worse for the poor, for women, and for those of us with illnesses and pre-existing conditions. And I fear for us because at the end of the day, we're not the democracy we think we are. If we were, we'd allow third-party candidates at our presidential debates and not arrest them; we'd have some alternatives to the two-party system and the status quo. 

But I am relieved by maintaining the status quo with my health. Two years. It's a milestone, and one I'm happy to celebrate.  

The Langoliers

As I wrote in my other post today, life got in the way of writing this past summer. Thankfully, however, cancer didn't get in the way. Knock on wood, all's still clear in that category - and it's been nearly two years since my surgery. In fact, last Monday was the two-year anniversary of my seizure, and Friday it'll be two years since my diagnosis.

It would probably be better to see these anniversaries as evidence that I've thrived, even in the face of this stupid brain tumor, but honestly, they mostly provoke existential angst along the lines of "There's so much I haven't done in those two years!"

Because the thing is, even two years later, I can still hear the Langoliers sometimes. For those unfamiliar with the Stephen King novella of the same name, they are voracious monsters that eat the past, leaving nothing - and nothingness - behind. I hear them figuratively, in my head; they are my own anxieties as I move on to the next MRI, the next oncologist visit, feeling good but what if this is the scan that shows growth? Two years of "surviving," and yet at the same time two years closer to the end of my life.

Perhaps equally frightening is that I can hear the Langoliers literally. As the crow flies, we're only a half-mile or so from an Exxon Mobil refinery. Sometimes, at 4:30 or 5:00 am, I can hear a repetitive crunching noise like the sound I imagine the Langoliers making, inexorable and dark, ready to wipe out everything in its path, including my brain and then the rest of me. Some mornings, depending upon how the wind has blown, there is a fine layer of black soot on our car windshields.

While I've joked in the past that my brain tumor may have been caused by scraping and then eating melted nacho cheese off of nonstick cookie sheets, it's far more likely that it was caused by environmental toxins. This report is from 2002, but we know that my tumor was growing for quite awhile. It's terrifying - even more so because now I'm raising my daughter here. Add to that the fact that  also a half-mile away, there's a former costume jewelry factory cum SuperFund site cum call center. We are surrounded by Langoliers in our soil and air and water. Their faces are the maps of chemical compounds, benzene and petroleum and countless others I can barely pronounce.

Whew. Now that I've gone all Silkwood, I think it's time to ratchet it down a notch, right? I know that's kind of tacky, but sometimes getting through the day requires a step or two back... to Savers, where last week I found a pair of AG "Angel" jeans for $9.99, as well as tan linen Armani Collezione pants for the same price. And then at Second Time Around, I took advantage of their fall weekend sale to pick up these amazing Max Mara T-strap heels. I really love the heel on these, because it's high but walkable.

A word here about Second Time Around: they get some terrific consignments, but the attitude in there is getting more and more unbearable. And I'm not sure what's up with all the staff turnover, but maybe the nice woman I used to chat with got fired because she wasn't sufficiently bitchy. "Resale goes upscale" may be the chain's motto, but it doesn't mean that the bitch factor needs to be inflated too. On Friday, T-straps in hand, I overheard an insufferable conversation between two employees about how to tell Marc Jacobs Collection from "Marc" by Marc Jacobs.

What's more, I still don't think most of their Providence customers would know the difference, and guess what? If it fits your body and your budget, buy it and wear it and LOVE it and don't give a shit where it's from. I have plenty of no-name brand things, and great stuff I've pulled from curbs and dumpsters. Style is never about how much you pay for something - certainly in my case, it's more about what I barely paid anything for - rather, most importantly, it's how you wear it.

So wear your clothes with love and pride, because the Langoliers are after us all, and if they take me down, I'm doing it in style.

Namaste,
Kelley

Underwater.

I tell my students that sometimes just starting is the hardest thing about writing. So many times over the past few months I thought, "I should blog..." and then life got in the way.

But I had no shortage of fun during my radio silence from this blog. It was a glorious summer, and so good to spend most of it in our house. Sam threw me a huge 41 1/2 birthday bash in July, complete with old friends, new friends, kung fu friends, pulled pork barbecue, and jalapeño Cheetos - the greatest junk food of all time. (Why 41 1/2, you ask? Because my 40th was celebrated very modestly - if wonderfully - in New Zealand, two days after I finished radiation, and then, really, who wants to celebrate turning 41 in January?)

And then in early August, Carson and I joined my sister and her family for a wonderful trip to Curaçao in the southern Caribbean. (Sam, unfortunately, had school and work obligations here in RI.) It was a delightful week in which I finally found snorkeling from shore that rivaled the Samoas in terms of visibility and marine diversity. I spent more time in the water than out of it, and finally saw juvenile angelfish. One of these days I'll make it back to the South Pacific and finally see a juvie Emperor angel... 

(I realize this is an intermediate phase French angelfish, 

but it's such a great photo I wanted to include it.)

Moreover, before the Curaçao trip I wisely decided it was high time to order a snorkel mask with prescription lenses. It made all the difference in the world. I even found an octopus!

As much as I already loved snorkeling, I truly had no idea what I had missed before, thanks to my severe myopia. I Skyped with Sam every night from Curaçao, giddily recounting each day's finds: "A peacock flounder! Needlefish swimming just under the surface!," etc. etc. 

Her reply: "I'm only sorry you never saw them before."

For good measure, here's one last Curaçao photo - indisputably the best of the bunch. I love cephalopods! I learned that squid are so intelligent that they can communicate different messages to squid on either side of them by changing colors on the appropriate side. Every time we saw them, they were in neat, soldier-like rows. I even got inked at one point, which I consider a badge of honor. 

Snorkeling is a form of communion and meditation for me, my most contented and essential self. It is focused on breathing and movement but rewards keen observation that is further enhanced by intellectual curiosity. I learn more every time I go, because when I leave the water happy and tired, I then spark my mind by finding out as much as I can about what I've just seen. The only downside is that, once again, life gets in the way.

Not that fresh water is a deterrent. I've decided that I'll bring my gear anywhere I can safely (i.e., without freezing!) snorkel, even if the water's chilly. (To that end, I'll be ordering more Lavacore gear soon - I recommend it for anyone like me who needs underwater gear but has a latex allergy, or Reynaud's Syndrome. Truly, I'm a mess.)

Now that I can see, I brought my gear to the Adirondacks and then to New Hampshire at the end of the summer. Upper Saranac Lake is terrific for swimming, but too rusty for shooting below the surface, so instead here's a photo of the largemouth bass I nicknamed "Old Grand-Dad." He likes to hang out right at the end of our friends' waterline in Spofford Lake, New Hampshire. 

What didn't I do this summer other than write? Well, I didn't really shop for clothes, although I did buy a pair of Soludos espadrilles, which I adore. They are the real deal, with a rubber-on-jute sole.

The other thing I didn't do was run, at least not very much. I injured my coccyx muscles (go ahead and laugh), most likely from improper and insufficient stretching before and after running. It's been a very painful couple of months that have since been characterized by sitting on a donut cushion at work, groaning like an old man when I shift positions after sitting too long, and some very intimate physical therapy sessions (please, go ahead and laugh again. I have to. But let me assure you that this "massage" feels like anything but). If snorkeling is my water-based form of meditation, it turns out that running has been its inferior but still important land-based counterpart, and I miss it terribly.

It doesn't help that autumn is running weather, or that it seems like everyone I know is doing their first 1/2 marathons or 10Ks and I'm literally sidelined. It's been frustrating, especially since I worked so hard to become a runner in the wake of my cancer treatment (as a dear friend said, "It's literally adding insult to injury!"). It makes me feel a little underwater, and not in the right way. But I'm hoping to get back into it in the next couple of weeks, as I'm healing slowly but surely. Wish me luck.

Yours underwater,
Kelley

Summer Lilly & Winter Prada

I spent some time over the past week transitioning my closet from winter to summer. Of course, the fleece jackets can never be too far away. The weather can turn on a dime, as we were reminded the other night. After a glorious sunny early summer beach day during which I got a sunburn (despite what I thought was judicious sunscreen), we were driving up the Post Road in southern Rhode Island and marveled at how, over a distance of just ten miles, the fog rolled in, the wind kicked up, and the temperature dropped considerably. Thanks, New England. I get it.

So yes, I keep the fleece and the cardigans handy. Still, while I love my fall and winter clothes, there's joy to be had in hanging up cotton shift dresses and tops in bright patterns. Here's a shot of how one of the closets is starting to look:

Moreover, the season means that I can finally restore all of my Lilly Pulitzer clothes to their rightful places of prominence. My collection of vintage Lilly is impressive. I began collecting during my time at the University of Maryland from 1996-1998, when I frequented the Suitland, MD Value Village and Hyattsville Goodwill at least weekly. The Value Village was a real dump, but in those heady days before eBay - at which point it seemed everyone became a Lilly collector and consequently marked up prices - I could often find vintage Lilly items for as little as 99 cents. And I do mean vintage. Look at the tags and fabric along the inside of the hem (what is that called, anyway?):

 

                                            

                                       

     

                                                                                    

Because it was so inexpensive, and because some of those pieces were already 30 years old, I collected without regard to fit. In the fall of 1998, I made a Lilly "beach blanket" from many of the pieces I had collected that I knew would never fit:

Lions and tigers and cats and butterflies, oh my! 

Summer is when my true inner prep can be revealed. Oh, I think, I'll set aside secondhand chic and put away the Hermes for a few months, because I really just want to wear shorts with orange and yellow koalas.

One of the things I love about Lilly clothes is the sometimes unexpected color pairings, like reds and pinks together, which seems more Asian than American, particularly in this fish design:

The fish print is from a pair of extremely high-waisted Lilly pants. These are currently at the tailor being hemmed. The floral print on the bottom is from one of my favorite Lilly dresses.

The legend of Lilly is quite well-known by now: Husband Peter Pulitzer owned several citrus groves in South Florida. His wife Lilly, a socialite, operated a juice stand but soon found that juicing oranges stained her clothes. So she designed shift dresses in brightly colored, brightly patterned fabrics that would hide the stains. And thus a preppy icon was born. The brand exploded in popularity after Jackie Kennedy was photographed in a Lilly shift.


Last year, the Rhode Island School of Design had an exhibit called "Cocktail Culture" that featured women's cocktail clothing from 1920-1980. Several 1960s Lilly dresses were on display as part of the "New Casual" era of clothing. I took issue with the interpretation that the curators offered, which was that such clothes were in response to modern design by Charles and Ray Eames and their ilk and "California" living. There was no mention of the fact that Lilly Pulitzer was always known as a fashion choice of the country club set, giving uptight WASPs the chance to wear bright, crazy patterns that were still socially sanctioned, "safe" styles. Casual, yes, but steeped in a decidedly East Coast sensibility.


In any case, Lilly clothes are a lot of fun (as are their whimsical Main Line counterparts, Vested Gentress of Valley Forge, PA). And what's more fun than a queer girl from Fairfield County embracing (if with a wink) the style of clothing that would, it seems, be her birthright?


Well, I can think of one thing that's at least as much fun: finding seriously upscale clothing in a dumpster a day after an anonymous rich male Ivy League student graduated. I decided to go scavenging with my daughter, and we hit the jackpot. I may never again travel on Memorial Day, because now I know what might be thrown away by the 1%...


...like a black down Moncler parka. These things start at $700. It has a couple of small holes (cigarette burns?) in the back. I took it to Anna, my tailor, for a $10 repair. "It's not going to be perfect," she said. "That's okay," I assured her, "because I didn't pay anything for it!"


...or a pair of brand new Italian driving moccasins in Sam's size:

Never worn. Still in shoe bags. Tags still on the soles.

Styles like these sell for about $350 at Neiman Marcus.

...or a bag with folded, laundered shirts, including a Paul Smith shirt and a cute gray Gucci t-shirt with a discreet logo:

                        

...or. OR. If you saw this hanging bag in a dumpster, would you think anything was inside? Probably not. But maybe that's because you can't imagine being so wealthy that you'd just throw away anything Prada that needed its own hanging bag. 

Inside was a black hooded down Prada parka with some stains (paint?) on the left shoulder and sleeve. Are you freaking kidding me? For this it's dumpster material? You see my look of disbelief. 

If I were a hunter, it would have been a 10-point buck kind of day. I felt high for hours. So just as I'm organizing my closet for summer, I have to make room for winter coats. Of course, for free Prada, there's always room. 

Namaste,

Kelley

The Velveteen Sweatshirt (and t-shirt, and cutoffs)

One of the things that rarely happens in fashion blogs is discussion of what people wear when they sacrifice style for comfort. Maybe they're having a day when they simply don't care - or they're baking or gardening or just having a lazy morning.

Let's face it: Nearly everyone has run to the corner market in Crocs. (OK, I don't own Crocs, but I'll admit to being braless on a few occasions when I've brought my daughter to the bus stop, including today.) Or perhaps, like me, you too have dragged the recycling bins to the curb on garbage day in pajamas and winter boots. 

Clothing is performative, but sometimes you don't want to put your costume on, right? So I want to present three articles of clothing that are among my favorites. No designers here, but these are, and have been, in heavy wardrobe rotation. However, you'll be lucky to ever see these in person, mostly because the shirt and sweatshirt are on their very, very last legs (sleeves?).

Many of you probably remember the bit on Seinfeld about Jerry's attachment to "Golden Boy," his old beloved T-shirt that was beginning to fray but with which he couldn't part. Mary-Chapin Carpenter wrote a lovely song about her own version of Golden Boy, called simply "This Shirt" (ignore the cheesy 1990 video graphics and just listen). Her shirt evokes memories of a shirt well-worn and a life well-lived, across relationships and countries:

We all have articles of clothing that embody our memories, and here are three of mine.

The cutoff shorts were jeans I scavenged from a trash pile in my neighborhood in Takapuna, New Zealand. They were left curbside with other rubbish during "Inorganic Collection Time 2010." (I love how the Kiwis can make even recycling sound posh.) They're covered in brown and white paint, evidence of someone else's labor. In my sunny apartment, I basically lived in these during the six weeks I was undergoing radiation. I have read great novels, napped, and cried in these cutoffs, and more recently wore them to a Lucero show at which I was far too well-behaved. Mostly, though, they aren't seen in public beyond my own property line. 

The Vespa shirt came from Value City, the thrift store dangerously close to my house in American Samoa. There were a lot of treasures there, but this was my my favorite find. It's got small holes along the seams under the arms that get a little bigger every time I wash it. I have no idea of its original provenance - possibly Australian, as most of the shipments at Value City arrived in bulk from Down Under. In any case, I wore it on my 40th birthday in New Zealand. Here I am on that day, relieved to have finished radiation two days earlier and astounded at the bacon and obscene bananas on my breakfast plate at a Devonport restaurant:

There will always be other cutoffs, but the Vespa shirt is special. Sure, I could buy a new one on eBay with the same logo, but none of them have the double stripes along the shoulders - or the personal history. 

The third article of clothing is probably the oldest item in my wardrobe in terms of how long I've had it. Moses Brown is a posh private school in Providence. I found this vintage large kids' size Champion sweatshirt about twelve years ago at the clothing sale for MB's rival, the Wheeler School (see my last blog post). Mostly, now, I sleep in it, but there was a time when I wore it for far more vigorous activities, like hiking in the Adirondacks with my dog:

I've repaired the huge holes that are keeping the sleeves on, but it's so threadbare that there's almost nothing for the repair thread to anchor itself to. This is a self-portrait with the camera positioned at one of the holes. 

One of my dearest friends suggested that one's attachment to such things becomes almost pathological. I don't disagree. Will my life change, really, when this becomes another rag? Of course not. But I might be less comfortable. And there are no heirs apparent. 

What is it about certain articles of clothing? I would argue it's some combination of memory and physical comfort. These have been with me in some of my darkest hours, and like the story of the velveteen rabbit, they have become more real over the years; even as they grow shabbier, I love them more. 

Wheeler Deal(er)

Today I joined the faithful who line up every year outside the gym at the Wheeler School in anticipation of the 10 am opening of their annual (secondhand) clothing sale. Wheeler is a wealthy private day school in Providence, and this clothing sale is regarded as quite an event. 

An acquaintance who has a child there told me that lots of Wheeler moms volunteer to help with the sale, because that way they get sneak peeks at the merchandise. And it's well worth it - they regularly get donations of high-end designer clothes, sometimes with tags still attached. And I mean designer - Chanel, Prada, etc. Thus they have a "boutique" section with higher prices than the rest of their merchandise (although I once found a pair of Prada loafers in my size that were somehow NOT in the boutique section - and therefore only $2!)

The sale is impressive in both its organization and in the sheer volume of stuff for sale (which includes books, sportswear, and a white elephant section). But I never made it outside the boutique section today. 

Here's what I didn't buy: a J. McLaughlin vest that was about the best Hermes knockoff I've ever seen (like this but lined with fake fur). Too small. And then there was a vintage Guy Laroche "dress" (I guess) that was a black, straight wool sheath with a slit ALL THE WAY up the side of the leg, nearly waist high. Stunning, but also very transparent. It was gorgeous, but made for someone far longer legs. I'm sure it will go to a good home.

But I didn't leave empty-handed. I spotted a skirt that I knew immediately was either Orla Kiely or Marimekko. Sure enough - Orla Kiely. It's a heavy wool knit, and fully lined. It fits really nicely. 

Orla Kiely wool knit skirt: $25 

(retail likely in the $300-$400 range, judging by prices on the current Orla Kiely website)

Anyi Lu heels: $50 (retail $395)

The big find of the day, though, was a pair of great heels by Anyi Lu. I love it when secondhand shopping acquaints me with a designer I don't know, as was the case with these shoes. I learned that Lu is a former chemical engineer and competitive ballroom dancer who designs gorgeous, funky shoes that are handmade in Italy and known for being really comfortable. I'll admit that these are a little tight through the toes, but I wore them the rest of the day. Not only is the leather is incredibly high-quality, but I didn't get blisters on my heels! I'm thrilled. 

Here's another view of the shoe:

I went with my friend Shauna, who got an adorable jersey dress by Milly in a Pucci-type print that will serve her extremely well this summer. What's fun about the boutique section is the informal and organic camaraderie that springs up. Everyone is rooting for each other, offering encouragement and support. In the dressing area, four of us were in our bras and underwear, trading stuff we had brought in that didn't fit and asking for each other's opinion. I think this is quite a lovely thing. Perhaps it's because it's all secondhand. We're all paying for the privilege of wearing somebody else's clothes, so all we can be is humble and kind. 

Talismans

Other than knocking on wood when I say "knock on wood," I don't have too many superstitions, although there is a very pretty old brick on Prospect St. that I make a point of always rubbing my heel on when I walk over it. Someone carved "Polk" into it in a lovely 19th-century script, and it's the only one I've seen with what I guess is very old graffiti. I find it charming, and so I regard it as a charm:

But while I may not be particularly superstitious, ever since my diagnosis, I find myself doing two things when it's time to see the oncologist, which I now do quarterly - and let's hope there's no need to see him more frequently, KNOCK ON WOOD (I just did). 

(Note: there are plenty of things I do in the anxious days before my appointments - watch insipid and/or escapist TV, bite my nails, etc., but I'm talking about the rituals on the day of my appointments.)

The first thing is that I always dress really nicely for my appointments. This isn't about impressing the doctor, it's some weird psychological need to know that if by chance there's bad news, well, damn it, I'm going to receive it while looking fabulous.

I did this in New Zealand on the afternoon that Sam and I went to see my neurosurgeon to find out what the post-surgery pathology report had said. I wore my white Karen Millen trench coat and carried the Gilda Tonnelli handbag, both of which I had bought in a Takapuna consignment store, as pictured here:

The second thing I do is that I have talismans. I can't rub my heel on the special brick when I see the oncologist, so I often wear or bring other lucky charms. There's the pendant of Ganesh, remover of obstacles, that I bought in Jaipur (previously featured in this post). And there's this little owl. When Jesse and I were detained at immigration in New Zealand on our way back from Samoa in December 2010, I kept rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger:

I also have a Chanel wallet that is simultaneously the most awesome and the most ridiculous thing I own:

This wallet, along with the owl necklace, was a gift from a dear friend, who sent it to me when I was in New Zealand. It previously belonged to a woman I was privileged to know: a festival producer named Marie who had exquisite taste, who bayed like a beagle when she was in the bathroom, and who never could figure out how to use the office intercom. Those of us who knew Marie especially remember that she had her assistant write complaint letters, and the stock phrase in those letters was "Imagine my mortification when." We've gotten many laughs out of this over the years.

Imagine my mortification when I got diagnosed with brain cancer at 39 years old.

Ergo, one should have a Chanel wallet.

I am very pleased to report that my MRI last week was uneventful, and my meeting with the oncologist was mostly notable for what he showed me on the MRI - the huge blank space in my right hemisphere where my neurosurgeon carved out part of the tumor. It looks like a pond, and it's absolutely incredible to me that despite this, I am me. To paraphrase from Whitman, I celebrate myself... I see, dance, laugh, sing... I sing the body electric. 

I don't for a second really believe that my talismans keep me safe from further bad news, but a lot of this is just luck, and I am lucky to even be well enough to care about how I dress for my appointments. 

Lucky, lucky me.

I haven't been doing much secondhand shopping lately, but I did want to show off this crazy Marni top my sister bought for me on eBay, as well as my wonderful eBay Miu Miu pants. eBay is always a bit of a gamble, particularly with European sizing, but when it works, it's a beautiful thing, as these are. 

Finally, I'm pleased to say that the This I Believe program has finally archived an essay I submitted last summer about cancer and how I define family. Enjoy.

Namaste, 

Kelley 

Cashmere and Pearls

I have always enjoyed walking through cemeteries. An advantage of living in New England is that one doesn't have to go far to find land full of crooked gravestones, many from the 18th century. About a mile from my house, there's the picturesque Little Neck Cemetery, where a passenger from the Mayflower is buried. Nearby are the small stones for four young sisters who died within days of each other in 1833. Today, on a whim, I stopped for a few minutes at the Rumford Cemetery, an historical cemetery that's also in East Providence. I'd passed it many times before, but had never wandered in.

I love old cemeteries because I admire the artistry of gravestone art - the skulls and wings, the vines and angels; Old English phrases like "Here Lieth;" the long "s" that still always looks like "f". I love the Puritan names that sound decidedly un-Puritan, like "Experience" and "Freelove," both of which I saw on women's gravestones. I love the permanent typo and correction I noted on a centuries-old stone, where the dead person's name, incorrectly carved "Carpeter," had an "n" inserted in carved superscript with a perfect proofreader's caret.

Mostly, though, I love cemeteries because I imagine the lives that were lived and the stories the dead could tell. I get choked up at the tiny stones of the four sisters, thinking about their parents, who were buried nearby some thirty years later, curious about and yet not wanting to fully imagine the virus or fire that decimated that family or how that marriage survived in the wake of such grief. I wonder what kind of women "Experience" and "Freelove" were and whether the stonecarver who forgot the "n" in Carpenter was upbraided for his mistake - was he an apprentice? 

Hundreds of lives and narratives, some of which were probably quite ordinary and some, surely, that bucked hard against convention: not least the Mayflower pilgrim, whose religion may not have looked like any form of Christianity today, but who fled persecution nonetheless, or the more recent immigrants from Portugal and the Azores who also traveled across the ocean to establish lives here. 

Perhaps it wasn't accidental that it was today that I decided to visit the Rumford cemetery and once again contemplate the richness of different lives. This week, at Smith College, my alma mater, the campus newspaper published an odious letter written by an alumna from the Class of '84 that lamented the current state - more specifically, the student composition - of the College. At every turn, the author finds fault with Smith students. Her college has gotten too full of first-generation college students. It's too poor, too gay, too full of people who aren't white, too foreign. Moreover, there simply aren't enough women in cashmere coats and pearls. 

For those of you unfamiliar with Smith, it is a women's college, historically one of the "Seven Sisters" schools in the US. It has long been considered one of the top liberal arts colleges in the country and is known for academic rigor and for producing high-achieving, accomplished women. Its roster of alumnae includes such luminaries as Julia Child, Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem, and Sylvia Plath, to name just a few. However, in earlier decades, it was populated more by rich white women from expensive prep schools and wealthy suburbs (hence the very white short list above). 

My time at Smith wasn't easy. I grew up in one of the very counties that the letter writer mentions, and I was, I am embarrassed to say now, just as ignorant as she in many ways. I hadn't spent much time around people different from myself, and it can be really uncomfortable to learn that you don't know as much as you think you do about the world. Oh, the arrogance of certainty, and in my case, youth. 

In my first year, I spent more time watching "Days of Our Lives" than studying, and wound up on academic probation. I left Smith in the middle of my sophomore year, when I was coming out of the closet and suffering from depression, took some time off, spent two semesters at Vassar, and, finally, returned to Smith, where, 18 months later, I graduated in the top 10% of my class.

Along the way, though, something happened: my eyes and mind were opened to the wider world. I began to care about the lives of people whose backgrounds and narratives were different from mine, sometimes markedly so. I began to care about the places those women were from. I became a global citizen, and I haven't looked back.

Since this alumna's letter was published, I've never been prouder to call myself a Smithie. Hundreds of us have posted our stories on the campus paper's website and on Tumblr feeds and Facebook pages. In mine, I noted that I'm still preppy (and I do still love my cashmere and pearls), but that my experience at Smith was not one where I learned to think more narrowly about life. What all of these gloriously different stories reveal - and what I think the gravestones today said, too, albeit more quietly - is that each one of us has something important to say. Smith, in my case, helped me learn how to say it, and to say it with conviction and without apology. 

Here I am, far right, in matchy-matchy white, yellow, and orange. But one look at my fellow Smiffenpoof (a cappella group) alums and dear friends below will tell you that while we may look like an unlikely tribe, we Smithies are a tribe nonetheless, and one in which I take tremendous pride.

Namaste,
Kelley

A Deeper Shade of Pink

...with apologies to Ray Barretto...

I don't need to re-hash everything that happened last week with the fallout from the Susan G. Komen Foundation's decision to withdraw its funding to Planned Parenthood, followed several days later by an all-too-obvious about-face. Suffice to say I'm not sorry that Komen has been exposed for its hypocrisy. 

Pink ribbons, yellow bracelets: what do they mean? In the beginning, they may have connoted survivorship, awareness, or empathy, but all too quickly they became hollow marketing gimmicks, and at least in the case of Komen, frequently linked to corporations that, in the words of Ricky Ricardo, "have some 'splaining to do" about how they can purport to promote cancer "awareness" while simultaneously selling toxic products. (Breast Cancer Action is the organization to support, folks. They call out the bullshit.)

Aside from all of that, I have a couple of major gripes with both Komen and LiveStrong:

The first is why, as a culture, we're so quick to support so-called cancer "awareness" for those cancers related to sexuality (at least, if you're heterosexual). I'm thinking here of the noxious "save the ta-tas" stickers and shirts (oh, and by the way, they're not only gross, but THEIR FONT IS HIDEOUS, and, since this is a fashion/design blog, let me also say that both Komen and the "save the ta-tas" folks really favor an INSIPID shade of pink). 

This "sexualization" of cancer is not only reductive for those women and men who are coping with breast and testicular cancers, but it demeans the very real sexual side effects that many of us have dealt with as part of our diseases and/or treatments, myself included. You don't have to have breast cancer, testicular or prostate cancer, or undergo a prostatectomy to become infertile or to experience a long-term loss of sexual desire. Other cancers can also wreak havoc on this part of your life. (To all of those husbands and wives and partners out there who have continued to love us and have been patient with us as we have, or haven't, gotten our groove back, thank you. We are blessed to be sexually and emotionally intimate with you.)

The second major gripe is that since these cancers get so much attention, perhaps because they're tied up very obviously in our collective consciousness with sex and virility, other cancers get comparatively little press, and, more crucially, research funding. 

Here's the thing, though: no cancer is sexy, and cancer doesn't play fair. If it did, I wouldn't have a glioma. No one "deserves" cancer: not me, not the two-pack-a-day guy, not my family members and friends and friends' friends who have had other cancers. (Take a look at Tara Parker-Pope's 2008 column on this topic. Note, too, that lung cancer is the biggest cancer killer. Is it underfunded because we associate it with smoking, an increasingly stigmatized behavior, or because it's not tangentially associated with getting it on?) 

But since our culture seems to be wedded to empty gestures and bumper-sticker politics, I'd like to request an "awareness" ribbon for gliomas. It will be an orange, pink, black and white Pucci print, and it will look like this:

Namaste,
Kelley

An auspicious start to the year

Somehow another month passed without a blog update. No matter - this allows me to do a quick summary of my first month of preppy thrifting in 2012. 

I was fortunate to make a trip to the Westport, CT Goodwill store during the second weekend in January. Like everything else in Fairfield County, it has a reputation for being expensive, with prices often more in the "consignment store" range.

One would definitely not shop there if one were really on a tight budget - frankly, you could probably find less expensive new clothes at TJ Maxx, Marshall's, or the big box stores. Despite the prices, however, Westport Goodwill also has a reputation for having excellent secondhand clothes, and frequently high-end ones at that (e.g., Prada, D&G). This was my first visit in three years, and it did not disappoint.

In these lightweight plaid Theory pants, I'll be ready for my cruise (it will be my first, with my parents, at the end of March). I'll also be ready for trips to Weekapaug and other preppy enclaves.* 

I plan to pair these with a coral Lacoste polo shirt (not shown) that I found at Savers later in January.

"Yes, please, I'd love another gin and tonic."

I'll also be packing this canvas J. Crew skirt, which by the look of it and the still-sewn back pockets, has never been worn:

Dreaming about warmer weather is every New Englander's birthright in the winter, even if one could hardly characterize the temperatures in Rhode Island in January as chilly (it was in the upper 50s both yesterday and today). Still, I'm traditional enough that I wouldn't consider wearing the above items now.  

So I wasn't about to walk away from this Goodwill trip without finding a couple of things to tide me over until spring. This lambswool Horny Toad sweater was new with tags and (despite the bad color of the photo) is a nice sort of heathered olive and has a contrasting pale pink along the foldover collar:

This skirt was the clear standout of the trip, however. It's in a very fine-wale corduroy, and has hot pink grosgrain detail at the top of both patch pockets and down the center.

(I admit to a soft spot for grosgrain detail, just like I love rickrack, too. I only wish that I didn't now associate rickrack more with certain girls with bangs. I love vintage clothing, but there's something a little too precious and studied about the "quirky winsome girl" aesthetic.) Anyway, the skirt:

Skirt by Anne Carson (somehow I think it's not this Anne Carson)

And here I am, badly backlit, pairing the sweater with the skirt:

What else? I turned 41 in January, and received these lovely flowers:

and this spectacular phalaenopsis orchid:

and a few wonderful books, including the glorious Indian Textiles coffee table book. I have a lot to learn, and more trips to India are clearly warranted... 

as soon as I finish that gin and tonic.


Namaste and dress well,
Kelley

*A longish footnote: on the preppy book front, I highly recommend Tad Friend's exuberant, gorgeously written Cheerful Money: Me, My Family and the Decline of Wasp Splendor. Friend is a staff writer at The New Yorker and writes brilliantly and (surprisingly) movingly about downward mobility. (Tad, if members of your extended family ever need assistance in maintaining a preppy wardrobe on a budget, I'm your girl.)

Finally, all this talk about preppies reminds me of my favorite Metropolitan Diary entry, when someone recounted a story of being on a shuttle from Manhattan to the Hamptons:

Woman passenger: Driver, there's a wasp in this van!

Male passenger: Actually, there are three of us, but we're perfectly harmless.