The Tailored Woman

In Which Super Hot PopChips Leave Me Cold...

2010-03-09T21:03:00.000-06:00

I don't care for chocolate, ice cream or pastries. Mom didn't really believe in serving dessert, so I never developed much of a sweet tooth. But as I've said before, my people do love a good salty snack (perfect for cocktail hour) so don't step between a bowl of potato chips and me!

Since I try to avoid succumbing to high-fat chip temptation too often, I was excited when PopChips were finally available in Chicago. I kept reading tantalizing things about these lower fat chips that are "air-popped" rather than fried or baked. Supposedly they are all the rage on the West Coast with svelte actress types (at least, the ones who still eat carbs). I also love that the company is so consumer-friendly, giving samples away and supposedly even sending handwritten thank you notes in response to fan comments.

Alas, I don't believe I will be receiving such a note. I tried to love PopChips, I really did, but I don't understand the appeal. They strike me as overly salty, and their texture is reminiscent of that of Munchos, the odd "potato crisps" that seem as though they should be low fat (which is to say, they feel and taste like cardboard), yet aren't. Check any depleted vending machine and you'll likely see a lonely bag of Munchos hanging forlornly in the corner, the last choice of a desperate snacker.

I trust, however, that the wildly popular PopChips will avoid a similar fate, even without my support.

Who Does That Dudley Girl Think She Is?

2010-03-07T20:57:00.000-06:00

In my last post I wrote about the episode of Who Do You Think You Are? where Sarah Jessica Parker learns, to her surprise, that she has Puritan roots. She says something to the effect of how strange it is to be connected to early American history.

I played the wanton seductress Abigail in a high school production of The Crucible, but until recently never gave much thought to the fact that I was descended from some of the real women who called each other "Goody" (instead of "Mrs.") and got into a tizzy about witchcraft.

I've mentioned that my family tree includes hapless pilgrims who boarded the Speedwell, the Mayflower companion ship that didn't make it to Plymouth Rock. Another Puritan ancestor, Thomas Dudley, came over later as part of the Winthrop Fleet. Dudley was colonial governor of Massachusetts after his rival John Winthrop, and signed the charter founding a little college called Harvard.

Dropping Dudley's name has elicited interesting responses over the years. Once I was out to dinner with a number of colleagues, including an eminent statistician and his brilliant wife, who had just completed her dissertation on the Puritans. I trotted out Dudley and she said, “Oh, his granddaughter is in my research!” I asked the subject of her thesis. “Fornication in 17th Century Massachusetts,” she replied matter-of-factly, causing me nearly to choke on my filet mignon. (Turns out Marguerite Dudley escaped prosecution and in fact sued her married seducer for paternity.)

Perhaps the thought of their daughters riding around in fast carts with boys is what has the church elders looking so concerned in this painting? (Image courtesy of Wikipedia)

Who Do I Think I Am?

2010-03-06T09:54:00.002-06:00

NBC heavily promoted its "heartwarming" new ancestral-search show Who Do You Think You Are? during the equally warm and fuzzy Olympics. (Alas, it runs on Friday nights, so I'll likely watch it via On Demand.) The premiere episode featured fellow Cincinnati native Sarah Jessica Parker finding out that she has Puritan ancestors, including one who was accused of witchcraft and narrowly escaped the hangman's noose.

Make no mistake, this is a reality TV show, complete with obviously staged moments of "shock" and "delight." (Not to mention lots of conspicuous product placement for Ancestry.com.) When SJP finishes her quest and goes to her mother's home to tell her all she has learned, they beam at each other and even shed a few tears. Hmm. When I was at mom's over Christmas and dug into some of the family papers and photos for my book research, there was a little less beaming and a tad more muttering under the breath (mom) and cursing (me--I couldn't get the stupid scanner to work). Good thing mom and I are not famous actress and mother-of-famous-actress types, and thus have no cameras following us around.

Still, the new show is clearly an improvement over squat women getting punched in bars (c.f. The Jersey Shore). I have high hopes that the nation will be swept up in a craze for genealogy and wacky true family tales, thus increasing interest in my memoir (not to mention decreasing interest in overly-tan people with strange hair and few apparent manners).

Drunken Flower

2010-03-04T22:00:00.001-06:00

Recently I had a fabulous champagne cocktail at The Gage, the Irish gastropub on Michigan Avenue opposite the ‘Bean.’ The drink had a hibiscus flower in it and I confess I ate the garnish once I drained my glass. (Quelle horreur, I know.) The hibiscus was blood red and nicely sweet, with a tart edge. It's sort of like a fruit, so it has to be healthy, right? (Never mind the champagne and sugar.)

Bars use the lovely version steeped in syrup pictured here, but Trader Joe's carries dried sweetened hibiscus flowers as an inexpensive alternative. The texture is similar to that of an exotic gummy candy. I’ve found that the dried flowers are splendid in green tea, adding a touch of fruit flavor and a hint of sweetness to balance out the bitterness of the tea. (Plus they look really cool and a little freakish, resembling some sort of small sea creature that one can pluck out of the mug and eat in front of one’s horrified coworkers.)

Kiva - Loans That Change Lives (and Republicans)

2010-03-01T19:27:00.001-06:00

I’m a huge fan of Kiva, the microloan organization. This despite the fact that I was raised by conservative Midwestern Republican Wasps (all redundant terms), and my people tend to believe in the “up from your own bootstraps” approach. (Not to mention the “no estate tax” approach, just in case those bootstraps don’t stay up on their own.)

My current Kiva portfolio includes loans for a bakery in Tajikstan, a beauty salon in the Dominican Republic, a general store in Tanzania, and a used clothing store in Lebanon. So far my loans have been 100% paid back, and I re-lend the original funds as soon as they are returned to my Kiva account. (Adding loans to my basket is as fun as online shopping, with the added virtue of feeling like an Oprah-type benefactor at a relatively small cost.) I try to spread my dollars around the globe, and tend to be prejudiced in favor of women-owned businesses. When women achieve an income of their own, good things tend to happen for their families and their communities. (And maybe even their inheritances!)

According to Kiva, I've made more than the average number of loans, but I'm sadly lacking in invitations to others to join. So we'll consider this blog post one big group invitation. Head on over to Kiva now, and tell them the Tailored Woman sent you!

Dogs I Have Loved (Canine, not Human...)

2010-02-27T15:41:00.003-06:00

Some friends roped me into attending a fundraiser to raise awareness of "black dog syndrome," i.e., the lower adoption rate for black dogs (and cats). Huh? What weird form of animal adoption racism is this, and how have I never heard of it? Well, one of the tips for combating the syndrome is to talk about how wonderful and beautiful black dogs are. I am happy to do my part.

Our first family dog was a splendid black and brown Gordon Setter named Pepper; she was my father's prize birdhunting dog and lies faithfully at his feet in the family photo I posted a while back. She was equally devoted to my brother and me, functioning as a sort of canine second mother, and would let my brother lie with his head on her stomach when we watched TV in the den.

After Pepper came a gorgeous though neurotic golden retriever. His name was Abbey--short for Duke of Abbey--but this caused a lot of gender confusion. Abbey was meant to be the pick of the litter, a designation which caused much mirth in our household whenever he showed a rather startling lack of brains and decorum. (Pretty much any time he was actively breathing.) In this blurry old Polaroid photo (sorry), I am pouting because Abbey would not cooperate with the costume we put together for a parade. Mom and I thought it would be cute if I dressed up in my riding outfit and put a stuffed fox, also in a riding outfit, on Abbey. He disagreed and felt that jumping around out of control would have more impact on the judges. We didn't win the costume prize.

So you see? Go for the smart, soulful brunettes over the shallow, ditzy blondes. (I'm just speaking of canine adoptions here, of course.)

Hidden Truths and Tea Parties

2010-02-24T19:17:00.000-06:00

It’s not easy to make me smile when I’m waiting for the (chronically late and overcrowded) bus early on a winter morning. But today the park looked especially beautiful with a light snow falling, and then I spied this cheerful fellow peeping at me from behind the Kennison memorial.

All of Lincoln Park used to be a cemetery. My snowman friend is guarding the alleged final resting place of one David Kennison, who duped the good citizens of Chicago into believing that he was the oldest living survivor of the original tea party—the one in Boston. (Whenever I see headlines about tea parties now, I get all excited for a minute, thinking they mean the kind featuring tiny cucumber sandwiches … and then I see that politics are the only thing on the menu. No thank you.)

Last year an artist named Pamela Bannos added a sign behind the Kennison memorial as part of her “Hidden Truths: The Chicago City Cemetery and Lincoln Park” project. She reveals that Kennison was a con artist; he would have been too young to have dumped tea into Boston Harbor or fought with Washington, and he likely died at 85, not the 115 years he claimed. These discrepancies didn’t stop the nice ladies of the Daughters of the American Revolution from making Kennison a hero, and more recently his cause was taken up by the Tax Reform Action Coalition, who gathered at the Lincoln Park memorial a few years back.

Perhaps we can all sit down for a nice cup of tea to share Kennison stories. (But remember, no politics in polite company!)

In which I meet my dream man... in a Dick Francis novel

2010-02-22T20:29:00.000-06:00

Megan Smith was kind enough to link to my post about Dick Francis in her much more thorough and interesting piece about the late thriller writer on the Blog Her site. I particularly like the comment she makes about Reflex, my favorite book: "...the main character, Philip Nore, liked women. Not just loved women, had sex with women, or was raised by a woman -- he liked women. That theme carried through many of Francis' novels."

Quite true. As I've mentioned, I started reading Francis at a young age. His heroes, physically tough men with surprisingly tender hearts who were committed to fair play in an ugly and corrupt world, made quite an impression on me. I liked the way they talked to and romanced women... even if I thought the sex bits were kind of gross.

By the way, I stocked up on Francis books whenever my father took my brother and me to the library--Dad had to check out the novels for me since they were marked "A" for Adult, due to those aforementioned love scenes, which were really quite tame. Afterwards we would head out for pizza. The waitresses at our favorite restaurant could not get over the spectacle of three otherwise nice people reading and ignoring each other while waiting for dinner, but we all thought it was grand. (Apologies to the Mariemont library for the grease stains!)

The Provinical Lady in America

2010-02-20T20:26:00.002-06:00

Is there anything better than a book in the bath on a cold winter's night? (Wait... don't answer that.)

Anyway. Since Helen Fielding appears to have closed up shop, with no more installments of Bridget Jones's Diary in newspapers or bookstores, I've returned to her literary predecessor. The Provincial Lady is an English wife and mother who has a sideline career as a writer. She is the creation of E.M. Delafield, a pseudonym used by Elizabeth Monica Dashwood. The diaries are a thinly veiled account of the author's life, and balance out Delafield's more serious autobiographical novels such as Consequences.

The Provincial Lady's adventures take place between the two World Wars and are written in first-person form using much the same comic shorthand and self-deprecating humor later adopted by Fielding for her wildly funny and popular heroine. In the volume I just finished, The Provincial Lady in America (1934), the narrator is sent across the pond to promote her newest work. She neatly summarizes my city in a few lines:

Chicago strikes me as full of beautiful buildings and cannot imagine why nobody ever says anything about this aspect of it. Do not like to ask anything about gangsters, and see no signs of their activities, but hope these may be revealed later, otherwise children will be seriously disappointed.

A page or so later she writes:

Am beginning to feel slightly dazed--cocktails have undoubtedly contributed to this--but gratified beyond description at so much attention and kindness, and have hazy idea of writing letter home to explain that I am evidently of much greater importance than any of us has ever realized.

Doesn't that sound just like Bridget's signature line about being "v. busy and important"?

In Memorium: Dick Francis

2010-02-16T20:06:00.000-06:00

My people love murder mysteries, horses, dogs and everything else that goes with country life. (Meaning English country, not Britney Spears driving-with-baby-on-the-lap kind of country, y'all. Shudder.)

Dick Francis, the steeplechase jockey turned writer who died on Sunday at the age of 89, had a special place on the (slightly moldy) bookshelf of every Waspy vacation cottage. At one point I believe four generations of my father's family were reading Francis novels during our holidays on Florida's Sanibel Island: my great-grandmother, great-aunt, father and a very young me. I was a precocious reader. One summer vacation, when I was sunburned and bored, Dad tossed a thick volume over to me and said, "Here, read this--it has horses in it. You'll like it." The book was the now out of print Three To Show, a trilogy of Francis's best early mysteries, and I was instantly enthralled, caught up in the world of intrigue among the racing set.

I was a faithful Francis reader for many years after that. I even risked the scorn of my eminent literature professor at Sarah Lawrence when I meekly confessed that I had to skip out on a conference so I could hop the train into Manhattan, where Francis was signing his latest novel at Brentano's. (For those of you too young to remember, this was a bookstore back before the law was passed that we could only have Borders and Barnes & Noble.) The bookstore minions had us put our dedication requests on a sticky note, which was then handed to the great author, so he wouldn't have to talk to everyone. But when it was my turn, Francis studied the note and then looked up at me, asking, "Are you Cas?" I choked out a shy response. "No, he's my father, but I love your books too!" I was rewarded with a smile and a hint of a wink.

What a charming man. He will be dearly missed.

Finders, Keepers...

2010-02-15T13:15:00.000-06:00

I've been snapping up Tailored Woman items on eBay lately. One of my friends theorizes that so many items are coming on the market because of the down economy. I know that I will start having to sell some of my closet shortly to pay for all of these new acquisitions, which include leopard print pumps, a pink satin dress, and a navy leather purse that is very Kelly bag-esque. I've noted that some sellers are checking my blog for information on the store, then including it in their sales descriptions. I'm only too glad to help! (Though they are preaching to the choir, since I'll likely be the one buying the items. It's all very 'meta' or self-referential or whatever the term is.)

A while back I purchased these original illustrations from the Tailored Woman's New York Times and Sunday Tribune advertisements. The illustrator was Naomi Shapin and the ads appeared sometime in the 1960s. This rather grand lady reminds me of Patricia Neal's character in Breakfast at Tiffany's, sweeping into the apartment of her kept man, the gorgeous young George Peppard, with a cry of, "Dahhling...!"

(Not that I would ever think of buying a young man on eBay or anywhere else, mind you...)

Special Valentine's Day Edition

2010-02-14T11:30:00.000-06:00

Here are two Valentines from my grandmother's postcard collection. (See, it wasn't always just a Hallmark holiday!) The one below with the burglar cupid on it reads, "CHC, 1912" on the back, so it was given to my grandmother, Caroline How Collier, when she was two years old.

As for my heart, well, I've always identified with this quote by some obscure French guy named Proust:

Pleasure is like photography. What we take, in the presence of the beloved object, is merely a negative film; we develop it later, when we are at home and have once again found at our disposal that inner darkroom, the entrance to which is barred to us so long as we are with other people.

That used to be from a book called Remembrance of Things Passed, but it's now from a book called In Search of Lost Time. (I rather like the first title--taken from a Shakespeare sonnet--but the new title is a more accurate translation from the French and therefore more correct in literary circles. Yawn.)

Nice house, but I'd rather have the $70 Million...

2010-02-13T13:58:00.001-06:00

I've been sorting through my grandmother's collection of old postcards and I found this one of The Homestead in Blairstown, New Jersey. As I mentioned in a previous post, this was the creaky old mansion my great-great-grandparents, John D. and Melissa Gregory Vail, shared with their cousin, robber baron John Insley Blair.

I once sat next to a woman on a plane who was from Blairstown, and when I mentioned the family connection, she said, "We don't think too highly of Blair. He foreclosed on most of the townspeople's farms to build his railroad."

(Ah. So that would explain the "robber" part of robber baron. But did I mention that we didn't get the money?)

Our Cousin Obama

2010-02-09T21:18:00.000-06:00

My earliest documented Puritan ancestor, Thomas Blossom, was a farmer from a Cambridgeshire village called Great Shelford. He was presumably not a well-educated man, though some—including the amateur genealogists in my family--have tried to argue that his elegant letters to William Bradford prove him to be a Cambridge graduate. (Meaning what, exactly? That Oxford didn't teach a course on etiquette?)

Blossom fled with a group of other Pilgrims to Holland. He and his family then tried to sail to Plymouth on the Speedwell, the Mayflower companion ship you never read about in school... because it leaked, and had to turn back. Twice. Blossom has enjoyed a surge in Google search rankings of late, thanks to revelations that Barack Obama is a descendant. Upon learning this I sent out emails with the subject line “Our Cousin Obama” to various bemused family members.

I sent no emails advertising the fact that George W. Bush is also our cousin, through the same line. Even Republicans won’t claim him anymore. (Interestingly, we all share kinship through Blossom with Wild Bill Hickok, another rootin’ tootin’ cowboy, as well.)

What Growing Up Wasp Taught Me About... Growing Up Wasp

2010-02-06T22:07:00.001-06:00

I've been reading a ton of memoirs as I continue to work on mine. Currently I have three going: fellow Chicagoan Robyn Okrant's Living Oprah: My One-Year Experiment to Walk the Walk of the Queen of Talk; Cathy Alter's Up For Renewal: What Magazines Taught Me About Love, Sex, and Starting Over; and Mishna Wolff's I'm Down, about growing up white with a father who thought he was black.

My story isn't quite as dramatic, but it was at times a fish-out-of-water experience. Outside our house it was the 1970s, but inside it was the 1890s, and we tended to talk about people who had been dead for a century or two as if they were there in the living room sipping tea. For some strange reason, this made other people's eyes glaze over with boredom. It's still a bad family habit, and when we visit each other's houses, we catch up with old pieces of furniture as much as with each other. ("Why, if it isn't the Phelps divan! You're holding up well!")

Here's a photo of my parents, my brother and me on the famous divan itself. It came from my mother's father's mother's side in Richmond, Kentucky... oh never mind.

I'll be reading a piece about my eccentric upbringing, a modified version of the introduction to the book, at Essay Fiesta, a monthly personal essay reading series, at the Book Cellar in March. Stay tuned for more information!

We Wuz Robbed (But not by Jesse James)

2010-02-01T20:27:00.000-06:00

I'm working on the chapter of my book with this title, in which I introduce the character of my great-grandmother Minerva Parke Phelps Russel. She was a Wellesley graduate, alleged genealogist, and even more alleged Southern belle. (She was more Wellesley than belle, much like a certain former first lady turned Secretary of State.) After her cousin Nettie died in childbirth, Minerva snatched up the much-older widower, John Hooe Russel, known in his youth as the dandy of White Sulfur Springs.

Prior to his marriage to Minerva, Russel was president of a bank in Huntington, West Virginia. His middle name was pronounced, most unfortunately, as “Ho.” One day just after he headed out for lunch, his bank was robbed by masked gunmen, and Russel and a posse mounted up and chased the bandits. (None of whom was named Jesse James.) Minerva told it a little differently. In her account, Jesse and his boys first cased the joint by pretending to stage a revivalist meeting. My great-grandfather then ran into Jesse exiting the bank and realized he was no preacher when the gunman swore at him, saying "Well, young man, you are damned late for business!" Great stuff, right? Too bad not a word of it was true.

Although I have Minerva's signed affidavit that both Jesse and Frank James were present in Huntington, most historians now seem to agree that the foursome consisted of Frank James, Cole Younger, Tom Webb, and Tom McDaniels. McDaniels was killed by the posse. Webb, also known as Jack Keane, was captured shortly thereafter and served a number of years in prison.

The three Younger brothers were wounded and captured a year later in what is now known as the James gang's Waterloo, the failed attempt to rob the First National Bank of Northfield, Minnesota. Photos of the dead and wounded bank robbers were sent to my great-grandfather for identification, and later turned into souvenir postcards. (The living were photographed fully clothed, but the dead were stripped to the waist with still-bleeding bullet holes displayed. The postcards terrified me as a child. Ghoulish stuff.)

Scrubbing Up

2010-01-30T20:58:00.000-06:00

Ah, January in Chicago. My hands are so dry that I got a paper cut the other day from a pink Post-it note. (I bleed for my art, no?)

Here's how I survive: I make liberal use of the eucalyptus-scented steam room at my Equinox gym, then I coat myself in Creme de Corps by Kiehl's. This is the richest body lotion I've found. (As it should be, at $26.50 per 8.4 ounce bottle!)

To balance out the high cost of staying soft and hydrated, I advocate a simple, effective and practically free body scrub. Just mix up Kosher salt and honey to your desired texture (test on back of hands) then add a few drops of essential oil. (Lavender is nice since it contains natural antibiotic properties.) This takes care of any rough spots.

But be careful if you write this recipe down on a sticky note. Those things are hazardous!

A Plaza Tale

2010-01-27T19:08:00.002-06:00

I've heard from a number of people who remember the Tailored Woman store and its mercurial owner, Eugene K. Denton. I received the following message a few months ago from Diana Pons, who gave me permission to share her story.

My father, Victor Pons, was the maitre d' of the Oak Room at The Plaza Hotel on 59th Street and Fifth Avenue, just steps from The Tailored Woman. I am writing a book about my father's years at The Plaza (1953-1973) and the many experiences he, and I, had there. I was trying to remember when The Tailored Woman closed. I just Googled the store's name and I found your web site!

My father's years at The Plaza reflect my life from age 6 to 26. Your great-great-granduncle (Eugene K. Denton) came often to the Oak Room. He liked my father very much, and my father liked him. When I was 18 (that would be 1965), I was looking for a summer job. My father asked him if he needed help in the store. He gave me a job for the summer in the accounting department on the top floor. At the end of the day, all the merchandise ticket stubs from sales were brought upstairs (there were four of us in my department). We'd spend the next day adding them up to make sure that they matched the amount of money taken in. I had other duties too, but that was the primary one.

I read on your web site that you never met your great-great-granduncle. He was a character, and I mean that only in the nicest way. He was a tough taskmaster and kept everyone in the store on their toes. When he would get upset if something wasn't done right, he would bluster and yell. His face would get so red that I thought he would explode! He was, however, never anything but courteous and kind to me. When I left at the end of the summer, he took me to lunch (not in the Oak Room - women were only allowed in for dinner and supper until 1973) and he gave me a gift of a lovely brooch from the store, befitting a young girl, which I still have. My father told me that he said that I was a "smart girl and an excellent employee who would do well in life." Especially at age 18, I was very honored by his compliment.

I did run into him once more in a restaurant on Madison Avenue. He recognized me first and came to my table to say hello. I was pleasantly surprised that he would remember me, considering all the people he must have met over many years. He left before I did, and when I asked for my check my waiter told me that it was paid, compliments of Mr. Denton.

I thought you might enjoy my story, and I am so glad that I found your web site and learned a little more about your family and the history of The Tailored Woman. It was a wonderful store owned by a man I have never forgotten.

Isn't that lovely? And isn't it fortunate that I didn't inherit the Denton temper? (No comments from the peanut gallery, please...)

Meet John Insley Blair, Our Robber Baron

2010-01-24T18:08:00.007-06:00

There I was, innocently leafing through Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers, when I stumbled across my family's very own robber baron, John Insley Blair. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Gladwell ranks him as the 52nd richest human ever. In recorded history. Upon his death in 1899, Blair left his direct heirs $70 million, the equivalent of many billions today. He left my family a creaky old house, the Homestead, in Blairstown, New Jersey.

Blair was a cousin and business partner; my Vail ancestors helped him build the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western railroad. My great-great-grandparents shared the Homestead with Blair when he was an elderly widower. In this photo, Blair sits at the center of a family grouping in front of the house. My great-great-grandparents are on the far left and right, respectively. My great-grandmother, Mary Gregory Vail, is leaning on her father. (She married Allen Collier of Cincinnati.)

Blair is wearing his shabby old coat in the photo. Famously tightfisted, the multi-millionaire ate a cup of custard and coffee as his daily lunch. There is a great family story about Blair dining at a railroad cafe while inspecting work on the line at west. Upon noticing that railroad employees were entitled to a discount, Blair plunked down his quarter to pay for his meal. The young woman at the cash register said, "Do you belong to the railroad, sir?" Blair replied, no doubt with a miserly gleam in his eye, "No, but the railroad belongs to me!"

His descendants left Blairstown to join New York society. Daughter Emma married publishing magnate Charles Scribner, and we have photos of their son (Charles Jr.) in short pants. A great-granddaughter became Mrs. H.O. Havemeyer, Jr. Long before I knew of this connection, I admired items from the vast Havemeyer Collection (including magnificent Impressionist paintings) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

As for the Homestead, my grandmother grandly gave it to the president of neighboring Blair Academy, who promptly tore it down. (Figures.)

The Tailored Woman store, circa 1967

2010-01-23T11:20:00.000-06:00

I received permission from the generous and talented Dave Hay to post this photo of the Tailored Woman store, taken as part of a series of photos of Midtown when Dave was newly-arrived in the city in 1967. I love this shot of the corner of 57th and Fifth. The building, which still houses Bergdorf Goodman, looks very much the same today.

Take That Frown And Turn It Around: Wasp Botox

2010-01-22T19:39:00.000-06:00

Sure, you could spend upwards of $400 a pop on Botox. But if the idea of shelling out that kind of dough to shoot a deadly toxin into your face makes you, well, scowl, pick up a box of Frownies facial patches instead. (Find them for $14.99 at Whole Foods.)

Supposedly a Hollywood secret for decades—Renee Russo has copped to using them—these retro wrinkle remedies are just the thing for a needle-phobic Recessionista. The nifty adhesive patches smell like craft paper but work like a charm. I moistened the back of one and slapped it on my forehead before bed, and it smoothed out my brow crinkles by morning. The company claims that, over time, the patches will actually retrain the muscles of the face to reduce lines permanently.

One caveat: while the patches are pain free, the sight of your Frownies-covered face could cause your significant other to vanish along with your wrinkles. (Unless, that is, he thinks they make you look like Renee.)

Fleeting Thoughts of a Grumpy Wasp Girl (or, don't stand in my way at the escalator!)

2010-01-20T18:20:00.000-06:00

So much for my New Year's resolution to stop scowling so much. But can you blame me? I have to commute by bus and train every day, and the Chicago Transit Authority is guaranteed to put a frown on my face, rain or shine. Today's gripe: commuters who choose to stand on the escalator, when the rest of us are trying to get to work on time. (It's only about 20 steps, people. Remember that resolution you made to get more exercise? Well, now is your chance! It's called walking!)

Here's a bonus impatient-me-at-escalator story: I almost knocked Rod Stewart down a couple of years ago while I was shopping at 900 N. Michigan. Emerging from Bloomingdale's, I passed a leggy blonde ("Wow, that woman is really tall!") with a baby stroller, then almost ran into an older blond guy just hanging out at the top of the escalator, waiting for the rest of the family (Penny Lancaster and son Alistair) to catch up. The thing that stopped me was his spiky hair, sticking out like porcupine quills. ("Wow, that guy has Rod Stewart hair... oh, wait..."). Rod sort of shuffled out of my way and I murmured an apology as I slipped by him.

I didn't look back to see what sort of scowl he was sporting.

Haiti, Blood and Revolution

2010-01-16T12:19:00.001-06:00

A somber post, I'm afraid.

Haiti is on everyone's mind this week. I gave to the Red Cross and Yele, but wish I could do more. Unfortunately the stupid Red Cross variant Creutzfeld-Jacob Disease restrictions prohibit me from giving blood, since I spent more than 3 months cumulatively in the U.K. between 1980 and 1996. (Others may say I am a bit of a mad cow, but I assure you I'm sane and I have quite nice blood to offer.)

Speaking of which, it turns out I'm not entirely English; there's a bit of Scottish, French, German (and even possibly Cherokee) in the mix. As I've dug into the research for my family memoir, I've learned that we have a Haitian connection. The French blood comes via Rene Gregoire, who lived in Port au Prince.

Gregoire's life is a tale of two revolutions. According to family lore he first came to the states with Lafayette, fighting for the colonies in our Revolutionary War. Then he made his way to Haiti, where he owned a coffee plantation. He died on the eve of Haiti's revolution, which started as an uprising by slaves; his family believed that Gregoire was poisoned, perhaps by one of his own servants. (If Gregoire indeed had a plantation, which has not been proven, then he must have been a slave owner.) Most of Rene's offspring were presumed to have been killed in the violent insurrection that took the majority of white lives on the island. One son, Caspar Gregoire, survived; he was supposedly rowed to safety by a sympathetic slave. He was taken onboard a U.S. merchant vessel and landed in Philadelphia, where he changed the family name to Gregory.

Caspar became a boat captain and, in a strange twist, once took freed slaves from Charleston to Liberia. My great-great-great-grandfather, Caspar's son Henry Duval Gregory, was a very learned professor. One of his brothers moved to Leipzig, Germany and enlisted to fight for his adopted country in World War I. So the Gregoires were an interesting if misguided bunch, hurtling back and forth between quests for liberty and domination.

I'll end with a prayer for the living and the dead of Haiti: As blood flows once again in the streets of Port au Prince, and lives and hope are crushed, please God may the miracle of peace and stability spring forth this time from the ruins.

In which my hometown is Gill-otined

2010-01-14T21:27:00.000-06:00

Oh dear. I opened the new Vanity Fair (the one with the creepy photos of Tiger Woods on the cover) and found my hometown slammed in the first sentence of A.A. Gill’s article on the even creepier Creation Museum: “It’s not in the nature of stoic Cincinnatians to boast, which is fortunate, really, for they have meager pickings to boast about.”

True enough, after last weekend’s drubbing of the Bengals at the hands of the Jets. And I suppose if Cincinnatians hide all of our other vices (booze, gambling, live nude girls, the airport) across the river, we’ll have to accept the wacky, anti-evolution Creation Museum--actually located in Petersburg, Kentucky--as ours, too.

Happily, this issue also includes a spotlight on Persephone Books, the English publishing house devoted to reissues of forgotten 20th century classics. I’m a longtime subscriber to the catalog, and while visiting friends in London a while back I stopped in at the tiny Persephone shop to pick up The Shuttle, Frances Hodgson Burnett's 1907, ripped-from-the-headlines novel about American heiresses snapping up English lords--sometimes much to their mutual regret.

(Too bad the hilariously acerbic, Scottish-born Gill wasn’t around back then to warn our young women of fortune about the English, whom he memorably describes as "the lumpen and louty, course, unsubtle, beady-eyed, beefy-bummed herd" in his book The Angry Island.)

Pret a Vendre (to Pret a Manger)

2010-01-10T19:51:00.000-06:00

Translation: ready to sell to Pret a Manger! (Which means "ready to eat" in French.)

In my last post I mentioned that I was hoping the UK's Pret A Manger would bring their fresh, tasty, ready-to-go sandwiches, soups and salads to Chicago. I received a nice comment in response that my dreams are set to come true this year. Can't wait to be able to snap up a Cheddar and Chutney sandwich on my daily commute.

I noticed this intriguing statement while exploring the company's website: Do you have a friend or neighbor who makes delicious natural food? Anything from jam to sausages. Please let us know or get them to call us. We are always looking for delicious, ‘out of the ordinary’ ingredients.

Wasps adore savory cocktail snacks, and my father makes the best bleu cheese dip in the world. (He uses a secret ingredient that I am not at liberty to reveal.) At Christmas my step-siblings and I gobbled up an entire bowl--leaving no room for a perfectly nice ham that was supposed to be dinner--while discussing how to market Dad's special concoction. The dip is terrific with potato chips (or "crisps" in Pret's parlance), but it would no doubt make for a decadently rich, tasty sandwich spread. I think we'll have to call on our new friends at Pret a Manger!

(Being known as the "Denton's dip heiress" would be rather fabulous, no?)