Putting the math in fashion since 1984

                Last week I was in Portland, Oregon for a leadership conference and as the attire for most days was business casual I decided to wear my colored chinos with appropriately coordinated outfits and accessories.  As we have previously discussed, I think I’m a cutie-tootie in my ensembles (pronounced ahn-sahm-blahs because I’m like that) and I receive myriad reactions depending on the audience for these outfits.  Of course, I try to absorb some of the color.  And other than a younger, more attractive homeless contingency, I wasn’t sure what to expect from Portland locals. 

                I was staying at the Heathman Hotel.  I will let that sink in.  If you are confused as to the reference, then you’re fine; I was confused too.  If you recognized that name, know that I am judging you and not just a little bit.  Apparently this hotel featured prominently into that confoundingly popular “Fifty Shades of Nasty” book series, according to some of my friends who shall remain nameless as they should be, but I assure you are not, properly shamed.  Someone asked me if I had read any of the series, of which there are three.  I responded, “If the fans of the books call it ‘mommy porn’, I don’t think I have to read it to make an assumption of the level of yuckiness therein.”  Feel free to disagree.  It won’t be the first time we’ve not seen eye-to-eye.  I was never a fan of the gauchos/poncho trend in the 70s, although I do miss the velvet blazer/plaid wool skirt/knee boot look from the 80s.

                And I said all that to say this, the breakfast breads in the hotel restaurant were so good I was able to stop feeling all ‘ookie’ and partake each morning.  Their croissants were delectable and the scones were just delicious.  I told my Daddy this story and he asked what a scone was and I explained it was like a biscuit made with sugar, which he appreciated but it dampened my ‘fancy’ just a touch.  The manager of the restaurant was the nicest lady who remarked on my outfits every morning and decided I needed a free scone for “being so dapper”.  And since I agreed that I was dapper, I accepted her offer of cinnamon scone with marion berry jam. 

                I always laugh when I see marion berry anything as the former mayor of DC, who was caught on camera smoking crack with a hooker and was then re-elected and to this day serves on the City Council, is named Marion Barry.  I don’t know why I shared that, other than the unspoken crack addiction joke that I’m not sure is even appropriate at this juncture or any juncture for that matter.  Crack is not something to joke about, people, so stop it.  Apparently, if it’s in my head, it’s on the paper, y’all.  No apologies. 

                Anyway, on my jaunts around the city I met all and sundry of Portland.  Some of them weird like the homeless guy I gave money to for he and his woman to eat at Subway (how does he have somebody and I don’t?  At the very least, I have a home…with a roof AND walls).  Also, I had a messenger bag full of $1 coins because the public transportation that I was forced to take under pressure from my peers in the leadership conference ticket kiosk wouldn’t take debit cards and I only had $20 bills so I ended up with a ticket for a train ride I didn’t want to be on to go to a bowling alley in a sketchy neighborhood and $18 in $1 coins because that’s how they roll at the Portland Transit Authority.  Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Sacajawea but I don’t need eighteen of her likeness ruining the line of my trousers, which at this point were red.  What I mean was that day.  They didn’t turn red; they started out and remained red throughout the day.  It had nothing to do with setting the tone for possible gangland slaying and whatnot, although the neighborhood was a little more CSI than made me comfortable.  That the bowling alley had loaded tater tots, more than made up for it the gang territory feel of the neighborhood.  I’m not going to list where or off of what I would eat a tater tot.  Suffice it to say, when I see potatoes in ‘tot’ form, it is ON, do you hear me?

But getting aback to this homeless person, I think I am some sort of magnet for odd people (keep comments to yourself, it’s too easy) and that was before I embraced the rainbow of chinos that comprise my non-work wardrobe.  Mr. Subway and his woman saw me later that day and gave me an update on his life (his issues with Social Security which I presume he thought he told me about) and asked for more money.  When I reminded him he had just eaten at Subway in the last two hours and I didn’t think it was possible for him to be hungry again, he seemed confused.  I don’t know, maybe his girlfriend is a heavy eater.  Boy, she’s selfish for a homeless person, right?  What’s her deal?

                Portland is an awesome city because they are all about their vintage/thrift store clothing choices.  And there is a difference between vintage and thrift.  Vintage means sometimes ugly stuff from past decades at today’s retail prices.  Thrift means sometimes ugly stuff from today at past decades’ retail prices.  And, you know I love me some thrift stores.  And there are so many of these stores in downtown Portland, I found one that is solely big and tall vintage.  Who knew?  The manager and I became fast friends because she is awesome (Hi, Carlie!) and we had a fun conversation about, among other things, rodeos…in a thrift shop…in Oregon.  After leaving Fat Fancy, I got caught in a sudden sleet storm and sought shelter in the nearest Starbucks, of which there is one every 6 inches.  Seriously, there are two across the street from each other.  When I entered, I was awarded “Best Pants of the Day” and another free scone.  How people equate baked goods with awesome pants is beyond me, but who am I to argue although at this point, mis pantalones (that’s Spanish) were going to be el tighto, por favor (also Spanish), if I kept eating said scones. 

              I could find that homeless guy and give the scone to him, I suppose.  But I’m not going to walk around looking for him since I already went to all the thrift stores.  I’m wearing fuchsia chinos (with a gray pea coat and gray suede wingtips); maybe I’ll just walk to the center of Portland and let him find me.  But, is that really helping him?  Give a man a scone and he eats for one meal; give him teal chinos and he eats for one meal, if he's lucky, but boy doesn't he look good doing it.  I'm trying to stay humble but being all Ghandi-like while wearing Brooks Brothers is hard work, y'all. 

            At the very least I should be rewarded with one of those 'secret' government drones taking a photo of my breathtaking approach to men’s fashion and giving the Department of Defense new ideas to elevate their uniform options.  Khaki and Navy are not exciting colors, y’all. Do you really want people defending your country taking their fashion cues from one of those chain stores?  It’s called Old Navy for a reason, people.  We want a New Navy, which could be purple or at least aqua.  Am I right?  And Olive is not a pop color to anyone except my sister and the Mennonites.  At least Amish women embrace color and can’t we all learn something from them, other than they can be straight-up trashy during Rumspringa.  What?  I watched that documentary.  And no, I’m not talking about the ridiculous, fake ‘Amish Mafia’ that my Daddy watches.

                I have been wearing colored chinos, colored socks and pocket squares for a number of years and it seems that the fashion world is slowly following suit.  Lately it looks like an Easter parade in most menswear departments at better retailers nationwide.  Am I mad at the Johnny-come-latelies jumping on my bandwagon, which sounds like a trailer you pull behind the band bus?  Absolutely not.  If we can make the whole world a better-dressed place, I am all for it.  Plus it pays unexpected dividends: better service when shopping, access to the first-class security fast lane at airports without ticket verification (‘cause you know my government employee tail is not flying first class) and requests for assistance in coordinating outfits from total strangers while shopping.  And, as we have just learned, free foodstuffs. 

And if I become those within my sphere of influences’ frame of reference for awesome, then they will have come into alignment with the thinking I have embraced for far too long to honestly admit.  Colored Chinos + Suede Wingtips = Free Scones.  I wonder if that’s the new math I’ve been hearing about?  No child (or tacky person) left behind, y’all!

                And that is all I’m saying.

World Peace has a new mascot

                As you know I have been buzzing around town in the ‘neck truck since my sister left in her newly purchased car o’ mine.  It hasn’t been too terrible but I am simply not a truck person.  There are specific things about my Daddy’s truck that aren’t standard on most Ford Rangers that require skills and patience that I just don’t possess.  For example, the tailgate lever (?) handle (?) thingy is missing so you have to reach in the bed of the truck and pull one metal rod one way, whilst twisting and pulling another metal rod in order to open the tailgate.  If I were that mechanically inclined, I would be an engineer instead of a bureaucrat, I assure you.  Well, maybe not, but at least I would be able to give more information to the computer help desk at the hospital other than my computer is black and I am in room 110B, Building 5.  I always tell myself that the sigh of pity that meets my repeated requests is simply “noise on the line”, which I understand is a computer term.  Right?

                You would think that someone who had been "tailgating" on more than one occasion would be more familiar with the inner workings on the gate on which we tailed, but I tailgated at Ole Miss and those gates are not of the Ford Ranger variety to be sure.  I had to let down this particular tailgate to remove his scooter so I could see out the rearview mirror.  When that machine is in the back, it looks like I’m being tailgated by a riding lawnmower that floats – like the skateboards they promised would be around in 2012 in the movie Back to the Future.    There is also the issue of the back side window.  His edition, which is ironically called a king cab, is not royal by anyone’s definition as there are roll-down windows.  I didn’t even know they made those anymore.  And it’s not like his truck is a 1921 model; it’s a 2002.  Who on earth, besides apparently my Daddy, would buy a vehicle with roll-down windows?  Okay, there are those people, but I am simply not one of them.  I never realized how many times a day I need to roll down my window.  I assumed it would be slim to none since I do not frequent drive thru fooding establishments nor do I litter, flip someone ‘the bird’ or smoke or any other behavior that would require someone to lower their window.  However, attempting to use the drive thru car wash, valet parking at work, freeing the random insect that somehow decided to ride shotgun or escaping the fumes of my father have all happened with alarming frequency.

                As I have the soul (and taste) of a trust funder but the spending habits of Scrooge McDuck, I was torn on what sort of vehicle to purchase.  I wanted it to be something that was stylish and attractive but not so expensive as to induce nausea each month when the payment was due.  I know that Dave Ramsay says you should buy a car with cash, but I could not stomach driving that truck any longer.  Some of my outfits simply refused to travel in that particular vehicle.  I have had to return to my room to change out of anything overtly preppy as the pastel chinos and even the saddle oxfords stood their ground, so to speak, and ever so gently lead me back to the closet, signaling the denim and khaki that they were substituting.  I almost said, “Substituting for this inning”!  A sports metaphor. Can you imagine?  This morning, in fact, my Brook Brothers baseball cap leapt from the shelf and onto my head as the word on the street was “Dustin’s going somewhere in a truck!”  Quelle Horror! 

                I had completed quite a bit of online comparing gas mileage, body style, level of awesomeness, etc.  I wanted a Mercedes for the sole reason of saying I had one.  That’s the only reason to buy a car like that.  If people were honest, they would admit that is the main reason you buy luxury goods is to show others that you can and they cannot.  I have a Louis Vuitton wallet.  It cost a ridiculous amount of money and it’s not even leather; its waxed cotton.  But I bought it because it made me feel fancy.  Am I that guy?  Apparently.  And the only reason I paid full retail is that LV has no outlet.  I love nice things but I do not like paying full retail.  My Coach attaché was purchase on clearance at the Coach Outlet, people.  All my Brooks Brothers clothing was either procured at the outlet mall or a thrift store.  The only other item for which I must pay full price is Spanx.  I need these undershirts to keep my post-weight-loss-pre-plastic-surgery midsection in some semblance of a midsection, y'all.  Plus, those people are doing the Lord’s work.  Can I get an amen?  Oh, really?  Ninety eight percent of the people reading this right now either have purchased, are currently wearing or really, really want Spanx.  If I was the only one, the inventor wouldn’t be something like the 3^rd wealthiest woman in America.  Just saying.

But the clothes and accessories are minor purchases in comparison to buying something like a car.  That is serious money, dear readers.  Not to get all street on you, but that’s a lot of Benjamins just to feel fancy and be obnoxious.  I can be that guy for much less money, do you hear me?  I was that guy in my Chrysler Concorde.  Full disclosure, I was that guy in my ’77 Plymouth Volare.    I’ve always been uppity according to mi familia (that’s Spanish).  See?

                So I bought a 2013 Hyundai Sonata.  It looks somewhat like an S-class Mercedes and it is fat and full of cool things and I got a great deal and I am happy.  So happy in fact that when I returned home my Daddy asked me to fry some chicken.  And I said yes!  I have never fried chicken in my entire life.  I have eaten more than my fair share but I wasn’t really paying attention to how it was prepared.  Apparently he had been wanting some chicken for quite a while and was waiting for me to be in just the right frame of mind to agree.  It seems that last Sunday, Norah Jones, she of “Don’t Know Why” groovy bluesy fame, was interviewed in Parade magazine.  She talked about how her mother used to cook fried chicken when they were growing up.  I guess Ravi Shankar, her father, either married a woman from the South or his real name was Reggie and he cooked it himself, because the recipe that was remarkably similar to my mother’s, according to my father.

                So I bought buttermilk, flour, and oil on purpose and without too much shame.  I always have a little; its residual shame from when we lived in the motel in Texas when I was in high school.  Man, I’m being all “Oprah Moment” with y’all today.  Anyway, I fried it up with some onion rings and turnip greens and cornbread and sauerkraut with smoked sausage.  I apologize to anyone whose cholesterol just rose reading that sentence.  Apparently I have become even more of an old Southern lady but that, if we’re all being honest, is no longer a surprise and has become somewhat expected and actually a bit stale, as a disclosure.  Am I right?

                The best part about the fried chicken incident was that it gave me some interesting insights into my family.  I now know why my mother ate very little at supper; she was full from the snacking while cooking.  I personally “taste tested” about 4 or 5 onion rings and ate more "goodies" than I should.  Goodies are the crumbly pieces of crust that fall of the chicken.  My Daddy coined that term when I was very young; I had forgotten I even knew that word.  I was also forced to apologize to my Daddy for always making a mess when he fries something.  I was all OCD in the kitchen today and still managed to get grease on a number of surfaces including my suede saddle oxford.  I know, who on earth fries food wearing suede?  Just you Dustin.  Lastly, it puts my Daddy in a most festive mood; on par with someone who has won $20 bucks on a lottery scratch-off. 

From within the haze of chicken grease (apparently I got the scald just right), he has volunteered to watch both “Queen and Country”, a BBC documentary about my favorite royal QEII, and Drop Dead Diva, an over-the-top sitcom on Lifetime TV.  Maybe they should serve fried chicken at the UN and solve all these pesky world issues in one fell swoop.  Maybe they should serve it to everybody in America and end all this partisan bickering.  Paula Deen for President, y’all.  The country will be too full to fight! 

I do believe that deserves an Amen from somebody.