Reno Chic

I am sporting a new look. It's called Reno-Chic and it's all the rage on the runway over at my house. Well, it's not really a runway, but more of a footpath through boxes of building materials, tools, shop vacs and sometimes rubble. I strut through here with "Highway to Hell" or "Welcome to the Jungle" blasting in my head. The look itself may seem similar to the grunge look of the early 90s, but instead being a backlash to former extravagance (ie. the 80s), the look stems from necessity. It is necessary to dress this way while living amid a full-scale renovation.

Key pieces include formerly cute, but now nearing rag status sweat pants. They must be ratty and paint spattered, preferably stretched out from pregnancy and in no way can they be flattering. Next come the layering pieces: old tank tops, stained hoodies and the piece de la resistance, the paint shirt. This is a old men's work shirt, rumpled, stiff with paint splashes and of course, a few tears and stains. In order to keep the look authentic one must cultivate their own personal spin on this style over time. One day spent spent sanding baseboards does not a reno diva make.

Oh yes! The most important element and my personal favourite: the shoes! For me an outfit cannot be considered complete with out the proper footwear. Options include ratty house slippers, worn out Uggs or very old cross trainers.

Hair, make-up and accessories must be minimal for this trend. Last night's mascara and a slick of chapstick bode well with the natural blush of one's cheeks after a morning spent sweeping, scooping and suctioning up the former walls or ceiling. A modest diamond stud earring is the perfect amount of bling with hair swept up in a messy top knot.

I have a strong suspicion that when this trend comes to an end, like all trends do, there will be yet another backlash. Luxe new handbags, sexy jeans and tops proportionate with one's body are on the horizon. Beautiful new custom closets need new clothes in order for it to really shine, no?

PS: There will be no photo for this post. Pictures just don't do it justice.

A Trip for Three (and a half) To Paris

Ah, Paris in the fall! Arguably the most beautiful and romantic of European cities. The perfect place to stroll along the Seine or down lovely treed boulevards with your lover... and three-year-old.... and baby-to-be.

That's right. My memories of Paris include strollers, maternity jeans that refused to stay up and a sippy cup leaking milk on my husband's laptop. Isn't it romantic? Indeed, I had a few high expectations and pre-conceived notions to hurdle over once we learned we were going to the City of Lights. And pre-conceived they were, since we planned the trip before... before I got pregnant, that is. Before we realized we would have to tote our three-year-old. Before our lives changed forever.

It wasn't as though we could change our minds either, we were going to attend my sister's wedding, after all. If we didn't go, we would miss the wedding which would be unacceptable. Also, we knew this fact: if we didn't go now, it would be a very, very, very long time before the opportunity would come around again with a new baby on the way. And so we packed our bags and stroller and car seat and toys and blankies and to Paris we flew.

I was worried about what to wear in Paris. It is, after all, one of the most stylish cities in all the world and I, for one, didn't want to look like a slobby tourist. I was at the point in my pregnancy commonly known as "the beer gut stage" meaning that my belly had pooched out enough to be noticed, but the rest of me could pass for normal. I was growing out of my cute little regular clothes almost daily forcing me to spend travel dollars on stupid maternity clothes.

{Sidenote: Let it also be known that with second pregnancies, one's body gives in and surrenders to the wee babe a lot faster. With Sofia, no one knew I was pregnant until month eight unless I told them. It's also probably attributed to the caloric difference between craving watermelon during a heat wave in August and baked goods and chocolate truffles over Christmas and Valentine's.}

I realize that maternity clothes have come along way since the days of printed smocks and denim jumpers, but I can be a bit of a fashionista. I would rather have visited any other city in the world pregnant than Paris. There's just something about Paris in the fall that makes you want to put on your sexiest jeans, most stylish coat, tall, shiny boots, a fab scarf and dark glasses and parade down Champs Elysees in style. At least to me that only seemed appropriate.

This was not my fate. Nope. I was blossoming daily and destined to spend my days in gay Paris wearing bell-shaped knit tops, jeans with an elasticized waist band and (gasp!) runners. We walked everywhere. No boots, no designer denim, no adorable waist-cinching blazers for me. I was headed into a deep, dark fashion depression and the hormones (irrational at best and hysterical, even psychotic at worst) coursing through my veins did little to help matters.

I placated myself by eating endless croissants, cheese and baguettes, but with no vin to wash it down it just wasn't the same. We saw the sights, toured the Louvre, climbed the Eiffel tower and had an amazingly great time with our three-year-old in tow. I should give my sweet little Sofia props for being the most charming, sweet, well-behaved toddler tourist in all of France! With her sunshiny curls and luminous green eyes the Parisians were eating out of her cherubic little hands. She gave an Oscar-worthy performance as far as I was concerned. She was practically a celebrity amongst le French kids and their nannies at the playground in the park beneath the Eiffel Tower!

About halfway through our Paris adventure my husband, who knows me better than I know myself at times, dragged me into a shoe store and commanded me to sit down. Italian men know when their women need new shoes. An hour later I left wearing the cutest tall black suede wedge-heeled boots. They were high, but not too high; sexy, but not overtly skanky. They were pregnancy-chic! I was yanked from my fashion depression, elated by the new shoe high commonly experienced by shoe addicts.

I spent the rest of my time in Paris buoyed in height and spirit by my new boots and the fact there was still the big night- my sister's wedding, at The Ritz, no less. This wedding would fall into "the most amazing places to get married" category on anyone's list. And, as bridesmaids, we were to don not the predictable matching dresses and other accoutrements, but anything we wanted. As long as it was the most fabulous thing we could muster we were free birds.

I chose a rather slinky- by pregnant standards, anyway- matte jersey, empire-waisted BCBG gown in chocolate brown with a built-in sequined bosom. It was gorgeous and showed off my baby bump in a particularly glamorous Angelina Jolie kind of way. Of course, nothing less than stilettos would do, at least for this one night. So bronzy- brown strappy sandals with a rather fetching ankle strap and gold accents on the heel were de rigeur!

All too soon our week in Paris came to an end. To this day, every time I see those boots or that gown I take a walk, or should I say waddle down my own personal memory lane of fashion. And of course back to Paris.... I can practically smell the intoxicating scents of crepes and handbags right now!

Change of a Dress

Recently, as luck and life would have it, I returned to my former career in a part time capacity. Initially I experienced apprehension and doubt. Actually, the truth is I more or less had a temper tantrum about having to add one more set of obligations to my existing laundry list of goals and responsibilities. And so I dreaded it... at first.

But then something interesting, no, magical happened as I began to get ready for work outside the home. My spirits began to lift as I applied my make-up with expert precision. "Like ridin' a bike," I drawled to myself as I gleefully indulged in my love of cosmetics. I artfully applied actual foundation and concealer then proceeded to pencil, shadow and bronze in some features. "Office chic!" I exclaimed to no one in particular. Armed with lipliner and a new gloss my revitalization was unfolding with the greatest of ease. Soon I was shaking out my freshly hot-rolled locks, spritzing on perfume (Jo Malone's Orange Blossom, very light for work) and, wait for it, even choosing accessories!

Finally, I slipped into my perfectly pressed little black suit. It didn't fit like a glove, more of a loose mitten. But I implore of you, isn't it better to try something on one hasn't worn for ages and find there is room to spare? Hell, yeah! So I cinched the whole thing in with an au currant wide patent belt, slid into my wedge-heeled, round-toed, shiny black pumps with buckle detail and sashayed downstairs to show off my svelte new self. I admit it, I felt fabulous, as though I could take on the world and didn't need an extra cup of coffee to do so. My husband planted a big kiss on me, "Look at you, skinny-minnie," he said. My five-year-old daughter agreed I looked "super fancy!"

I felt fantastic all day long. The time I actually spent at work was refreshing, but in no way earth-shaking. It was really just another day at work. I concluded my new-found confidence was directly related to my vamped-up personal appearance and the proverbial "breather" from my regular routine at home.  

Later I had a thought: If we never have a second chance to make a first impression, then what impression are we making on our children by letting them see us only in our bathrobes and sweatpants? That we're not worth the time it takes to look and feel not even our best, but at the very least presentable? That they are not worth us feeling worthy in their presence? We're not paying attention- to ourselves or their perception of us. At least I admit I wasn't. Not enough anyway. There's a fine line between comfy or practical and just plain slobby. 

I know myself well enough to know that if I don't feel good about how I look, then my mood suffers and in the end my kids pay for it. I know I won't be able to pull off hot-mama-tastic everyday of my life, but it's something I can work on. Why? Well, as the marketing people at L'oreal pointed out, "Because I'm worth it!" And so are my kids.    

In My Shoes

I love shoes. The perfect pair all merchandised up in a fancy boutique has been known to trigger some fairly strong reactions in me; from child-like joy, ie.) prancing around the shoe store in the perfect leopard print, peep-toe stiletto sling-backs with a slight platform; to utter despair at the sheer unattainable exclusivity of a certain pair of fringed and fabulous satin, scarlet-soled Louboutins. I wanted to cry, but didn't because I know one day they will be mine. 

I don't love shoes just for their obvious beauty. They are like sculptural, wearable art to me and which ones I choose really helps to paint a picture in my mind and captures the essence of the event to which I wore them. Also, shoes complete an outfit in a way nothing else can. Shoes can can take a simple black pencil skirt from zero to sexy in about 10 seconds flat. Maybe the most important thing to love about our shoes is the way they make us feel. Confident. And confidence is one style that never, ever goes out of fashion.

It seems my shoes of late have been doing little to build my own confidence. After a stint as a stay-at-home mother I have a whole new set of footwear- sneakers, Uggs, flip flops and gumboots. Practical, practical, practical in stark contrast to my beauties lovingly stored in stacked, labeled boxes. Even the shoes I once wore to work allowed for a little sassiness. I could look down in the middle of a drab work day and have a little hit of fabulousness. Not so with the "mom shoes."

Now I am at a cross roads in my life... yet again, ladies. Do I want to spend all my time raising kids and wearing runners and feeling in my deepest heart of hearts a wee bit unfulfilled? It pains me to admit that, it really does. Or do I want to take a step back from that world, put my heels back on and go for it? Do I want my children to reflect on their own childhoods and say: "My mum was always there for us?" or, "My mum showed me how to follow my dreams by following her own?"

It's a big decision. All I know is I am on a journey and I am getting to know myself. And you can never really know me unless you've been In My Shoes... whichever pair they may be.