Just a Few More Style Notes from Paris

I can't bring myself to do a fashion post-mortem on the Oscars; fun, yes, but the style of celebrities on their most fashion-conscious night simply does not apply to my average Monday. Though I'm quite sure my husband would appreciate it if I served tonight's ratatouille wearing a floor-length archival Valentino.

Aside from a lovely pile of the latest magazines (I refuse to end my love affair with paper, dammit), I find myself referring back to the notes I made from Paris for mature fashion guidance. At least the lives of Parisian women are somewhat closer to my own, and I like what they're wearing to serve that ratatouille.

Hasta, cheries.

PS: A little "x" on a garment means it's in noir. And please note humor in my recommendation of cigarettes as accessory.

More Fabulous French Fashion Tips

I got such a positive reaction from my style sketches from the ultimate catwalk--the streets of Paris--that I'm posting more here. Seven years later, they're still surprisingly current.

Besos, mujeres magnifiques.

Some good reasons to blog about how freakin' great your 40s are (or can be).

1. Misery loves company. My 40s have been my best decade ever--really!--and I like laying waste to myths that life is all downhill after 40. Downhill is a good thing. Everything leading to 40 for me was an uphill climb, and I hate to sweat. I want to share the love for those of you approaching 40 or already in the trenches.

2. Whenever my grandmother was asked how she was doing, she'd say, "Fabulous! Never better." That's just too good a catchphrase not to use for a blog. Also, half the time she said it, she was lying her stylish ass off. My goal is to be able to say "F! NB" and mean it. And maybe even get you to say it, too.

3. I need a road map to fabulousness. Nana was my original role model, but if I try to emulate her, I'll look like a Mad Men hangover. How does a woman dress age appropriately while logging on to Facebook? As I mature (I don't use the term "get older"; older than whom, exactly?), I need advice on big life issues, such as whether it's okay for me to wear motorcycle boots at age 47. And not just okay, like, Can-I-get-away-with-it okay, because that's not really okay. I mean, is it attractive, or do I just look like I missed last call at the Limelight in 1992 and never left? I'll try to get experts to weigh in.

4. I can't type and eat at the same time, so blogging may keep me from developing the dreaded mature woman potbelly (please God).

5. I can't keep a secret believe in information sharing, so if I come across any news/clues that will make my (and, by proxy, your) 40s better, I'll pass it along in "It Works!" and "Eat Yourself Older/Younger" and other columns. And since I'm not taking payola from any sources (if only), any opinions expressed here will be free of icky ethics or conflicted interests.

Until next time, chicas fabulosas. 

This is the way I'd love to dress like, all the time. Unforch, this outfit costs more than I've made in the past few months. Also, I work at home; whose gonna see me wearing this Angelina Jolie-as-Salt getup?

Fabulousness and All Things French: What's Up With That?

I hear microblogging is the big thing these days--now you just Tweet and Tumbl your life in bitty sentences and tiny URLs. I love brevity--in theory. I'll try to make it a practice here.

A trend I've noticed among fabulous women (read: those of us over 40) is a penchant for all things French. Trips to Paris. Books on how we American women can be more like French women. And, of course, French fashion.

Why all the hoo-ha (as Mom would say) about les trucs francaises? It's simple: the French love their women--no matter what their age. And French women, being so honored, never stop being sexy. They also dress stylishly at every stage of life; they never give up and give in to elastic waistbands, figuring "why bother?"Why? Because sooner or later, you're going to run into a reflective surface somewhere, and you want to like what you see. That goes for any age, but especially when your looks are changing. Becoming more mature doesn't necessarily mean losing your looks; I, for one, think I'm far cuter now than when I was younger.

I spent my 40th birthday in Paris, and if there's anyone under 40 reading this, I'm telling you right now: book that birthday flight. To me, Paris is a not-so-young-ladies' finishing school, where I learned how to eat properly--i.e., avec enjoyment and sans guilt; to flirt without overanalyzing all the fun out of it; and how to dress.

Et voila: Straight from the best catwalk in the world--the streets of Paris--here are some fashion notes I took on my 40th birthday. It doesn't even matter that they're from 7 years ago; French fashion, like brevity to get one's point across, never goes out of style.

Moxie (and Some Man Candy)

The other night, my gorgeous friend L. up and quit her job. She'd been thinking about it, dare I say fantasizing about it, for months. It doesn't seem that there was any particular incident that led to the reverse pink slip, other than perhaps a desire not to end up like the woman who died at her desk--and none of her colleagues noticed until the next day. (Sarcasm here would be the written equivalent of too much jewelry: unnecessary and unattractive.)

Leaving a job without another one lined up, especially in a recession, takes a lot of guts, conviction, confidence, and faith. If L. were a man, she'd be described as having balls (always pronounced BAWLz, to give it that extra oomph). I prefer the more female-appropriate and frankly cuter sounding word moxie.

Moxie, I've found, is one of those 40+ perks. Women under 40 can have confidence, sass, audacity, cheek if they're British, chutzpah if they're Jewish. Sometimes, their boldness is just described as being crazy. Moxie is different--a more mature, elegant mixture of courage and adventurousness. It's backbone with a dash of dash. There's life experience in moxie, though it may be just as impulsive as its little sister crazy.

My utterly fabulous Nana had moxie for days. Also due to another impulsive job departure--Grandpa quitting his milkman gig--Nana found herself trapped in a remote farmhouse with no job and no friends, baking and watching her waistline thicken while her sanity slimmed. One day, Grandpa came home and found all the farm animals gone; Nana had sold them all and announced that they were wintering in Florida or she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. Because of this, my mother's code for an act of moxie is, "Sometimes, you just have to sell the cows." That's what L. did when she quit her job. It's a leap of faith, having the moxie to sell the cows. But what a view as you sail through the air.

And what does Mr. Depp have to do with moxie, or a blog about the fabulousness of the 40+ set? Other than that he's effin' h-o-t-t and I need a little window dressing for this blog or who the hell's going to read it, he's L.'s ultimato favorito. This is my way of sending her a Man Candygram, not for seizing life by a crude term for anatomy she doesn't possess, but for having moxie.

Besos, bellezas.

Fix It or Forget It

I'm in a blurry generational area, not quite Boomer, not X-centric, but I'm still of the age where I express most of my deepest feelings with pop culture references. To wit, my mood today is summed up very nicely with this movie poster:

While I don't subscribe to the tyrannical ultra-positive movement that suggests, with a patronizing smile, that we turn every single frown upside down, I do have a caveat to these times when I stare out the window like women in ads for depression meds. It's one simple rule:

Fix it or forget it.

I can't take credit for this little gem of a whine cork; that goes to Amy Gross, a true maven and role model. She's very serene and into meditation while still maintaining glamour and a chic wardrobe. She's got it going on.

Fortunately, though, my angst has nothing to do with being in my 40s; it's the same meaningful, sigh-inducing existential blah blah I felt in my 20s. No wonder I feel so young! [<---sarcasm] But to tie in that whole "Fix it or forget it" motto, here's a 40-something issue that can be fixed: naked-looking eyes. 

One morning I told my dear friend Shez, "I want to know who the f*c% stole my eyelashes." While never exactly a stand-in for Bambi, I at least had something to bat at the boys (and, later, my husband). One day, though, I realized that I was starting to look like (prepare for another pop culture reference!) David Bowie in The Man Who Fell to Earth:

Okay, not quite that bad, but you get my meaning.

Anorexic eyelashes are one of the less-great parts of getting older becoming a more mature, self-possessed fabulous woman. They're something you can, and should, fix rather than forget. You could try that paint-on chemical that Brooke Shields touts; a woman I know is having some positive results with it. I'm going for the easier, less chemicals-on-my-eyes approach: good ol' mascara.

In this situation, your mascara choice takes on the same level of importance that your decision for college did back when you had a full, lush set of sweepers. My independent, non-corporate funded (I wish) research has led me to two options in predictably varied price points.

If you still have a job in this recession and are willing to $pend, go for Lancome Définicils High Definition Mascara. Better for length than thickness, but will take your lashes from non-existent to knocking people over. Average cost: about $25.

If you're unemployed self-employed and tend toward thrift, go for Maybelline Sky High Curves. This mascara has it all: length and almost pornographic thickening power. Average cost: three ($3!) measly bucks.

I do love a problem I can fix and forget. And now, I can get back to staring out the window and sighing existentially.

Later, locas.