At eight this morning Iona called from school.
“Mom, you have to bring me jeans, my short shorts are too short.”
Hello! When I saw her at 6.30 in the kitchen I thought she’d forgotten her skirt. But, this being a common thought, it slipped away without becoming another sarcastic remark, we were late for the bus, I hadn’t printed her essay nor sick note, panic ensued and my opinion on dress code was forgotten by the time we met up in my (still dark at 6.30) car.
Yes, DASH has a dress code. Its tolerant, but does require a certain amount of body coverage.
At 8.45 I arrived, bagged jeans in hand, and told the dear woman at reception that my daughter had been nabbed by the DASH fashion police and here I was; bringing her Burka.
Don’t you hate it when a good joke goes to waste? It was a case of flat ears.
Now rewind 12 hours to 200 yards across the street from DASH at the Moore building in the Design District, 5- 10 pm yesterday evening.
Burka’s crossed my mind then too.
I was there selling tutu’s. My original princess-dress tutu’s.
(I don’t mean to confuse you, yes-yes I work with beach plastic now, and not tule).
But I confused myself. I mean what was I thinking when my friend Francesca told me about a giant sample sale fashion event called Sassy City Chicks?
Fate, I thought.
Tutu* destiny calls, I thought.
*Aside – I keep a “past lives storage unit” in Milford, across from ACE hardware. Last summer I was getting two tutu dresses from my previous Baby Gordon collection (in storage for ten years) for friends with brand-new baby girls in their lives and, in an inspired moment, thinking that Miami was the perfect market to get rid of my tutus once and for all (those princesses in the making) I UPS-ed two boxes down to our candy land bachelor pad.
Little did I know that the crowd of childless Sassy City Chicks Fashion Bashers had come for the DJ, the party atmosphere with free Smirnoff Vodka while they had their nails done, carried no cash, nor checks, only credit cards (which I did not take) and had about fifty dollars to spend on themselves, which went to an instant gratification piece of bling and not a Christmas tutu for their favorite niece.
I took one look at these girls’ heels, cleavage and legs and thought:
I may as well be selling burkas.
Like pastel baby tutus or black burkas @ Sassy City Chicks Fashion Bash = wrong demographic!
Still, I sold six pieces. I only lost thirty-five dollars. I had free Vodka. I hung out with Francesca, who oozes Italian style, and we bitched about the fashion Chernobyl going on around us.
I met a few cool young guys who do cool young things.
I got to stay out late by myself.
But, when I left the building and had to step over the passed-out body of a young woman lying in her own vomit, I decided to put my tutus back into storage for another ten years…