Trick or Treat

“It’s about the kid.” Shane insisted as I placed the wig on my head. I was Amy Winehouse. If anyone needed rehab, it was me. Hunter was dressed in his skunk outfit. I had just rushed home from work and was getting ready for the kid parade on 18th Street. Oddly enough, the neighborhood kids didn’t make it to 20th Street. Our block is completely bypassed, hence we do not get to pass out any treats. What a trick!

It seems Potrero Hill is very parade friendly. In fact, the past Saturday they had a halloween pet parade. Festive freaks. This year non of our friends hosted a halloween party and so I was going through a bit of a withdrawal. The parade started at five thirty, and we – or I- was running late. Shane, on the otherhand, kept reminding me that it was about Hunter. My husband, the sourpuss, was not in costume. He was going as himself for Halloween. He was as bland as table salt. Even more uneventful he wanted to post up at Rube Wine. I reminded him that it was about Hunter.

We ventured down the hill as I had to adapt to my depth perception of my billowing hair. My hair kept entangling itself in the tree branches. Chloe kept trying to outwit her leash in her pirate costume. Shane pushed the stroller. 18th street was a madhouse! We weaved through waves of families dressed in their favorite characters. It was great to be among such a live community. Hunter was oblivious of the buzz in the air. For the most part, my costume was unknown, except for the usual parent or teenager that would rave with delight. Otherwise, I could have been Marge Simpson for all they care.

After the parade, I would have been content plopping on the couch with a comforting meal watching a scary movie, but it was Felix’s birthday. So we made our way to the hip part of the Mission at Medjool. First of all, we had Hunter the skunk with us. I absolutely love being a mother, but dragging Hunter to a roof top bar is tasteless. I’m that person. I’m that parent. I felt slightly foolish for bringing him as Halloween in San Francisco is a drunker’s delight. Originally, we were just dropping in for a drink and making our way to a restaurant. So why am I sitting here tending to Hunter three drinks later? My drinking days are on “pause”. For Shane, it’s a reason for him to mingle with his friends. Ah the fun tryst of parenthood. As I don’t find any tingling sensation when urinating on his fun, we were heeding ten o’clock with an empty stomach. There goes our dinner plans, hello burrito!

In most cases, to be a parent means to be flexible. In my case, to be a wife meant to be patient.

Mantra: Marriage is priority. Kid comes second.

So why do I feel so slighted tonight? Shane never coerced me into it. For some death defying reason, I am not allowing motherhood to slow me down. It shouldn’t! At the same time, I don’t want to be that loser at the roof bar with the my son again. I need to start being a mom to my son. Ding! There’s an idea! So I shed the cool skin? I gain myself a sweet skunk.

This is Shellie having a treat of a time back to you Bob at the studio!

Crime of Fashion

Angela and I browsed through Diane von Frankenstein’s collection, chuckling at the sale prices, “This is crazy!” Angela bushy tail and bright eye to the fashion world, “who buys this sheeyat?” She pulled a polka dot tunic from the rack, “My grandma has shit like this. This is three hundred sixty eight dollars? Gimme a fucken break!” Meanwhile, I fell into the gaping dark hole of seventies groovy vintage by See by Chloé my absolute. I loved anything obscenely colorful. Shrug, I’m Filipino it’s in my hemoglobin.

There in the right corner of the show room, hung this exquisite coat. A Nairobi snake print coat that lured me in to its lair. This trench was sleek silk with a cinched and buckled wide waistband and cuffs. With great haste, I placed my bag on the floor gently tried it on and, “whoa!” Cavalli you bastard! “Holy shit that looks awesome on you!” Angela boisterously spoke the truth, “That is fucking awesome! How much is it?” She grabbed the tag, “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me? Twenty nine hundred dollars? Why don’t they just call it an even three grand, shit after flippin’ taxes!” I didn’t care about the price, this piece was slick! It was beyond slick. It was orgasmic. It handled my body like Lamborghini on wheels. I slowly removed the article from my body and returned it to its rightful owner.

We traipsed a few other collections, “Angela check this out.” I handed her a Valentino bold garden print dress Italian silk that gathered at the side waist, “Dude it’s like two grand!”
“Who cares, just try it on!”
“Oh, alright.”
That dress was gorgeous on her frame. We both admired the dress. She twirled and circled in the mirror like a little girl at a royal tea party. She was gorgeous as usual. There was nothing in this store that our bank account could handle. We shamelessly made our way to Forever21 where the dollar is king. We perused through the blouses, slacks, sweaters, and coats only to be disappointed. The pieces were pretty, but like Angela observed, “There is something to be said about designer clothing. They’re made better. Fit better and feel is better.” She was right we had been defeated by the designers’ precision in quality. Yet the styles of both stores were dead similar, Forever21’s quality was offensively brash. Lesson for today: window shopping is fun when you have a best friend to share it with.

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(This is dedicated to Minitti – fashion guru yoga meister)
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A dear friend of mine, I’ll call her Minitti, resides in Costa Rica. Formerly, the dean for the fashion program at CCAC. Prior, she worked on the designing team for Donna Karen. Now that you have her credentials, she was just here for a visit. I was never one with the fashion phenomena, thus she taught me a lot about the art and industry. I “love” clothes as much as the next girl, but I have a lot to learn. I am always awe inspired by the European women as they are so sophisticatedly simple and classic. I’m as trendy as a rainbow print tube top on a roller rink. I’m a fadster.

Three years ago, a bunch of girls sat around the living room and Karen, modest, “I’m going jean shopping tomorrow can you girls tell me where to go?”

“Oh my god!” Minitti turns to Karen arms speaking in tongue, “ you definitely need to get a pair of True Religions! They’re stitching is wonderful!” Mind you this was when True Religions wasn’t as common as Kraft cheese. “Let’s see what else…oh! Imitation of Christ that’s not a bad one. Habituals they’re decent. There’s Citizens of Humanity, Chip & Pepper, Joe’s Jeans, Paper Denim. Yeh man! For sure!” She crinkled her nose and clapped her hands together.

By this point, she had thrown us sub humans in a whirl wind of obscurity. The roomful of girls sat there flabbergasted. It was comical as no one really had the guts to interject. She lost me at Imitation of Christ, I couldn’t believe the branding genius behind that one. She was an evangelist. She gave a thirty minute lecture on jeans! Is she for real? Personally, I bought my jeans at Ross Dress for Less with labels that read Paris Blues and Rampage.

Jeans have come a long way. Now they cost more than a liver transplant. What gives? They’re just jeans? Well, I’d bet Minitti would have a rebuttal for my question. “It’s all about pieces.” She reminds me, “you don’t need a lot of clothes in your wardrobe.” She says things like, “I almost have it to where my wardrobe is almost complete," she spoke like it was a long running project to world domination. Unlike my closet that’s full of clutter that is so out of fashion that it’s back in. There’s a lot of pressure to keep up with the Miu Miu, Chloe, Valentino, Carolina Herrera and the likes. Besides pressure, who has the cash?

I’m glad to have a Minitti in my life. Everyone needs a Minitti in their life. She is fascinating and passionate about design and fashion unlike us mere mortals. She can whip up a dissertation on a Peugeot pepper grinder in two seconds flat. She can deconstruct a piece of garment while maintaining vrischika-asana. It’s amazing. That’s just on fashion and design, you should see her “spit” on gastronomy!

This is Shellie putting someone else in the spotlight back to you Bob at the studio!

Shed

As a kid on blistering days, one of my favorite things to do was to soak in a refreshing bath and watch the wind frolic with the curtain to and fro. I would sink slowly under water to dull the noise. Upon coming up for air, the sound of the neighborhood kids playing completed the silence. Besides, it was a relief away from the harassment of my nine older siblings. I relished my time alone. Silence. The occasional pound on the bathroom door phased me as much as the dust on the shelf.



As I rinse my hair, I notice an unusual amount of hair at my feet. I didn’t think anything of it, until I began to notice it was everywhere! On the couch, the kitchen floor, the bedroom floor, the bathroom floor, the bed, on Chloe, in my under wear. My hair had covered the entire surface of the globe! The final straw was finding Hunter chocking on a strand! What the fu_ _? Gross!

Till this point, I hadn’t read up on post partum. Who had the time? I’d rather sleep. I recalled, my sister mentioning hair loss subsequent to giving birth. Was it time? I trust it must have some relation to my hormone upheaval. I was losing hair by the handfuls! Heck, I could make a throw rug. Eek! After a quick internet research, I realized that it’s normal. Women shed, some more than others, hair. Thus, they forget to mention the hazard to a child. It was that point that I realized that we, women, tolerate a lot of crap like tampons (sanitary pads for you special creatures), waxing, males, estrogen, emotions, aging, peers, and designer shoes. We’re tangled in our own web. What next? Eve just had to take a bite out of that apple. Cursed.

It’s natural for me to be negative. It's difficult not to take it personally. That's when mom's voice pops in my head reminding me to, "stop wasting my time on things you can't change." She was right? My stress is some one else’s joy. Truly, being a woman is a gift (specifically, a woman in America).

As I soak my blessings in my tub full of steaming bubbles, I remind myself to embrace my womanhood: tampons (sanitary napkins for you other creatures), estrogen, waxing (plucking for you prehistoric mammals), cramps, menopause, boys (men, if you won the lottery), stretch marks, shedding, gravity, and aging. I immerse myself under the warm bubbles. Silence. Let my hair fall where it wants to.

This is Shellie from the roots of her scalp back to you Bob at the studio!