I Can See For Miles

I'm Short
Not "petite," which implies delicacy and a predilection for ruffles. Not "cute" (See "petite" but throw in dimples and curly hair). Not even "less than average height" which could mean I was 5'5" (isn't 5'6" about average for a woman?) No, I'm just short. Everything is proportioned pretty much the way it should be except for being a bit boyish from the waist down and overly girlish--if you get my drift; 'zaftig' as my grandmother would have put it--from the waist up but I'm short. And getting shorter. I used to be able to claim 5' 3 1/2". But they measured me at the doctor's office the other day and dang, if I'm not down to 5' 2 3/4". If I should make it to 102 like my other grandmother (the non-Yiddish speaking one), I figure I should be about 4' even.

Since being short is not exactly a new experience for me, I grew up wearing heels from age 11 on. This was partially driven by not wanting to be called "petite" or "cute," but having a sister who was 5' 11" no doubt was part of the mix. So I love heels. When I try to wear flats, even if they're the style of the season, I'm ill at ease, like I'm waiting to be stepped on all the time. Ballet flats were an adorable trend--but not for me. When I walk into a room, I want to make a statement and that statement is "I'm not really short; you must be exceptionally tall."

Sadly, I'm not really young anymore, either. So while there are scads of gorgeous heels out there in all models, colors, sizes, what have you, most of the really beautiful or gutsy or chic ones are 3" and up. I never fail to find some shoe in a Victoria's Secret Catalog that the primitive part of my cortex doesn't say "Want shoe. Need shoe. Must have." Then I look at the heel height--4", 4 1/4". Maybe when I was younger but now? When my balance is shot anyway? And I actually prefer not to be wincing in pain when I walk? I mean, talk about something that puts wrinkles on your face.

But try finding a really great shoe with a 2" or 2 1/2" heel--the height I've decided is about my optimum. Oh, there are shoes out there with that heel but they often come in exactly three shades of drab and usually have the words "Comfort" or "Support" or "Ortho-" in their names. You want to wear a brand with a cool name like "Naughty Monkey" (no, I did not make that up; those cute suede pirate boots I wore this winter?--that's the brand.) or "Chinese Laundry" and you're usually back to the 3" and up. So, Ladies of a Certain Age, how do we get shoe designers to realize that we, too, want to look like a celebrity or a model or even a bimbo sometimes but have this odd notion we should be able to walk while we're at it? Should we stage a Choo-in? Walk naked through the streets of New York's fashion district wearing nothing but Naturalizers? Boycott Nordstrom? (Just kidding--I couldn't stand the deprivation.)

Forget healthy, wealthy and wise--that's shot now, anyway. Give me heels.

Dear Liz Claiborne: You Go, Girl

I Paused. I Looked Twice. Was I reading Allure or Maxim?

There was Cindy Crawford, dressed in gladiatrix leather, subduing a loaf of peasant bread with her incisors, legs splayed, arms akimbo (possibly my favorite term for a body position). Yup, the cover reassured me, I was indeed reading Allure--a women's magazine focused usually on this season's "it" handbag; the cutest lip gloss; maybe an article on how to get your guy to treat you with more respect. Then I turned the page. . .And checked the title again. Because now I was looking at Cindy Crawford, one-time supermodel but now surely in the "mom" age range, similarly spread out, now naked and iced strategically--but not so strategically I couldn't see plenty--with whipped cream (OK, my guy friend says it was Cool Whip. I didn't linger on the page long enough to study texture closely.) The point of this photo shoot? Supposedly, to reassure all of us middle-aged women that this was "The New 43." If so, then Hera thank you for letting me be "The Old 55."

Clearly, women are still being told that it's unacceptable to simply age, that a sense of style and grace aren't enough, that we have to remain buff and tough and willing to show it all to survive the culture of youth.

Which brings me back to Liz Claiborne's current ad series. Yes, I know Liz herself is no longer around but the company still seems to be run by people who actually do have respect for women. The latest ads all show a number of people standing in some public setting--waiting for a bus; riding in an elevator--all wearing Liz Claiborne (admittedly, an amazing coincidence that everyone at the bus stop reached for the same designer that morning but, hey, a little suspension of disbelief here, people). And in each ad, there's a range of models. Always a lovely young woman or two, of course, and a guy who looks very metrosexual but also always a range of skin shades and body types and--what makes me smile most--age. In every ad, there's at least one "woman of a certain age" and that age isn't 43--or even 55, I'm guessing--and she's not a classic older model with shiny silver hair and great skin. No, the older woman wears her age on her face and in her body but she's still wearing the latest Claiborne fashions, wearing them in the same tasteful way all the other models in the ad are, not having to wear some token old lady version of them. In the elevator ad, the youngest model is dressed in pink with a flouncy skirt and brown clutch; the older model has on a great purple suit jacket with a clear trench over top and a big, statement-y tote bag. Both look beautifully stylish and like they are comfortable wearing clothes that express their ages and places in life.

None of us has to dress like Margaret Dumont if we feel more like Katherine Hepburn just because we're past 40. I still feel most comfortable in tight jeans and boots. And yes, I'm trying to work out a little so my triceps don't sway in the breeze this summer. But at a time when there are more middle- and older-aged people than young, why are we still getting the message that naked with whipped cream should be our goal.

Thanks, Liz. And shame on you, Allure. May you be forced to eat Cool Whip on your next sundae.

Ice, Ice, Baby

"Why ask for it straight up if you're gonna have me shake it?"
snarled (ok, he didn't snarl. He was about 5'5" and cute as a button with dimples the size of Oklahoma. I doubt he would snarl even at Rush Limbaugh) the bartender. And I empathize, I really do. Ice is both the boon and bane of mixed drinks.

Small amounts of water are really essential in smoothing the character of many alcoholic drinks and bringing out their topnotes and after-tones. Some of the peatier single malt Scotches, for instance, keep their peat in line better with a small splash of spring water.


And cocktails of most types incorporate water in one form or another. Now, unfortunately for all, sometimes this water comes mostly in the form of Mountain Dew or Diet Coke. The most appalling drink I ever heard ordered was Rhine Wine & Diet Coke. Yup, in the same glass.


But ice is usually the source of water and here's where we hit that bitter old debate: shaken or stirred. Professional bartenders are the most likely to hate having to shake drinks, especially drinks like Martinis or Manhattans, because they say shaking waters drinks down too much. Home drink makers then feel guilty every time they reach for their cute little vintage penguin shaker, feeling they are being such wusses. Stop feeling guilty, home mixers. You have one immense advantage over most bartenders and it makes all the difference:


Big, Chunky Ice Cubes


Bartenders are plagued by having to use the ice that comes out of commercial ice machines or is delivered by commercial ice companies. And this ice is almost always small--half moons, doughnut shaped, chipped. Diabolical little ices that mock the drink maker: "Hah, yes I'll chill your drink fast but I'll add lots and lots of water at the same time! Bwahaha!" I actually heard ice say that one time, but then let's keep in mind the Tom Waits' song, "The piano has been drinking." Big, honkin' cubes like you make yourself in an old-fashioned ice cube tray are tough and can take a beating without crying into your gin. You can shake them until your wee penguin is so cold, you can't hold on, yet release only the tiny amounts of water that help bring all the cocktail elements together.

So why do I insist that bartenders still shake, even though I never get a Martini out that's as good as I make at home? I suppose that this is the point where knowledge and empathy are replaced by sheer desire: I like my cocktails very, very, shall I add one more, very cold even at the cost of a little too much water. And I adore bartenders who, understanding this, shake like hell for short time rather than lazily wafting the shaker through the air practicing figure eights.

Make me a really cold Martini without complaining about how I want it made and I'll follow those dimples all the way to Oklahoma.

Cries And Vespers

Ever The Purist...

Sidebar, Judge.
I'm using "purist" in the sense that we did in the '60s when we talked about why we wouldn't use LSD. Not "natural" enough. Of course, that left enormous numbers of other mind-altering drugs--all so much more "natural"--that we could turn to. Rationalization is a lovely thing.

So, Ever the Purist...
When I became serious about drinking, which sounds worse than it is, and moved on from Sloe Gin Fizz and Kahlua & Cream to drinks that didn't taste like Shirley Temples or milkshakes, I became really "serious." For years, I wouldn't go beyond straight shots of Single Malt Scotch or Small-batch Bourbon. Then someone handed me a Martini. Wow, suddenly I was Dorothy Parker and Nora Charles and Craig Rice. I became a member of The Museum of the American Cocktail. Sophistication swirled around me and my cigarette smoke; bon mots flipped off my tongue as easily as I flipped off bad truckers; I even looked good in a cloche. Ok, except for the museum, that's all a lie. But, damn, if I didn't think it tasted just, well, really good.

Everything seemed so simple for a time. Gin, vermouth, ice, maybe an olive. Heaven in what is possibly the worst designed glass for drinking out of but the best for showing off. Then, cocktails became "trendy." And all you ever saw when you walked into a bar (sounds like the start of a joke) was a wall of Vodkas. Vodkas, of all things. And drinks with fruit and chocolate and brightly colored liquers all called some version of "Martini": Appletini, Razztini, Chocolatini. My bullshit meter went off and my purist button was pushed. Let me say this as loudly as the typewritten word will allow: I was not going to ever drink Vodka--especially in a Martini--so help me Dale DeGroff!

By now, you know what's coming. I found a drink I like Vodka in and it is, kinda, sorta, maybe, a Martini: James Bond's drink, The Vesper.

The Vesper is still a very simple drink. Arguments abound about proportions but if you want the basic gist and aren't worrying about exact ounces, go for:
2 Parts Gin
1 Part Vodka
1/2 Part Lillet Blanc

Shake (this is Bond, remember, "shaken, not stirred") over ice (big ice--that's for another blog entry), pour into a cocktail glass (a proper size cocktail glass, not a ten ounce monster--also the subject for another blog) and garnish with a lemon peel.

Lillet Blanc is a pale gold aperitif. Keep it chilled in your frig and you can sip it straight as well. A bottle will last you forever. Gins come in lots of odd permutations these days but don't be weird; stick with something nice and basic: Beefeater; Boodles; one of those "B" named brands (why do so many gin brands start with that letter?). I recommend against using Plymouth Gin for this drink--too soft and like Vodka to mix with it. And at that point, I'm stumped. After eschewing Vodka all these years, I really don't know the brands at all. I've been using Stoli but, hey, I've shown I'm capable of learning, if not new tricks, at least new drinks, so let me know. . .

2009's Most Unfortunate Fashion Flashback

The Jumpsuit
Remember these or has your brain's "horror filter" managed to purge this nightmarish fashion that, regardless of how bad everyone--EVERYONE--looks in it, reappears every 15 years or so. I remember my favorite jumpsuit (using the word "favorite" with the scariest of scare quotes) from the 70's when I was in college. I can only imagine now that I looked like a toddler garage mechanic in a onesie. Short-sleeves with a cuff; bell-bottoms, also with a cuff; and a belt that did absolutely nothing to create a waist--since I didn't have one to begin with. Oh, did I mention it was yellow? Now that was the way to blend in, wasn't it?

This year, the jumpsuits strutting down the runway try to make up for looking absurd by looking absurd. There have been billowy piles of parachute fabric, shiny armor-dried-on-high skin tight versions, and ones with large areas of cutouts. Now that makes sense. Let's design an article of clothing meant to cover you top to bottom and hack away large sections to show skin. Women aren't stupid: they show skin for men and that means cleavage and minis. When men see cutouts, they just wondered how you ripped your clothes. "Honey, did you fall down or somethin'?"

And none of this addresses the real downside of jumpsuits. How do you go to the bathroom? Maybe that's the beauty of the jumpsuit in the photo. At least with one exposed leg, she's got options (don't think too long about that). But imagine having to climb completely out of that after every cup of coffee. Do yourself a favor. If you want to look one-piece, just wear a shirt tucked in that matches your pants, skirt, whatever. And don't forget the cleavage.

Privileges of Age

If this blog were trendy & snarky, I'd just say "none." But I've vowed to avoid snark for at least my first three sentences, so...

First Privilege of Age: Bitching

55. While this used to be the age of doddering and slobbering, it's now very chic to hit your "double nickle," and even more than an AARP card will give you full access to a stage in life that can be most enjoyable--you can still wear tight jeans but you don't have to be as politically and socially correct. In other words--you can bitch. Not complain. Complaining is a whole different genre of irritation, one that is more irritating than entertaining which bitching should strive to be. Complaining encompasses foisting your current aches, pains, and sags--and there will be many--on anyone close enough to hear. Bitching has a less personal, more social cachet. You complain about arthritis; you bitch about how loudly the person next to you on the bus is text messaging. You complain about losing hair; you bitch about how boring Clairol's hair colors are. I mean, they can't do better than Medium Brown or Medium Golden Brown? How about Medium Brown with a hint of Caramel and undertones of Auburn? Would that be so hard?

Second Privilege of Age: Experimentation
See hair color comment above. When you're younger, you have to follow trends slavishly or risk being compared to Brittany Spears. When you're older, you can take a few more risks--you'll at worst be considered "eccentric" (at which time, adopt an English accent) and at best "cutting edge." In fact, the biggest mistake many women (men, too, but we'll deal with them cruelly in later posts) make is falling for the "dress your age" mantra. What does that mean? It can't mean dressing like a politician your age: how many of us really look good in yellow pantsuits (though if you do, go for it). And it certainly doesn't mean dressing like a celebrity your age unless you have someone who can follow you around and photoshop you continually. Really, what age should release you to do is "dress your mindset." Since most of us in our 40's, 50's, and 60's don't have cliques we have to fit in with, we can look as we want--but be prepared to be criticized for it, especially by me. Which leads to the...

Third Privilege of Age: Publishing Your Bitching and Experimentation
And that's what this blog will be about. Opinions of a 55, almost 56, year old highly opinionated but generally gracious--at least in public--woman who still wears her hair long, her jeans tight, and her heels high but is always on the lookout for clothes that are different, makeup that she wouldn't have tried at 16, skincare that will really get rid of those new wrinkles, and cocktail recipes that are real cocktails, not Appletinis. And since I have as my faithful sidekick a very young, very artistic, and equally opinionated gay guy, I'd say my credentials to opine just jumped fifty fold--maybe, 55 fold.