Iron Maiden

I had tickets to a hot date--with my girlfriend. For the first time since giving birth, both of us planned to celebrate the momentous occasion of a Girl's Night Out. Freedom from our kids! Freedom from our men! Absolute Unencumbered Freedom. 

Our destination:  one of Portland's hottest auctions; a huge money-maker that generates over $500,000 in a three-hour evening from the city's biggest philanthropists. Neither of us were planning to bid on its luxury offerings. $15,000 for a Tahitian get-away? No problem. $10,000 for wine tasting at Chateauneuf du Papes? Uh, huh. $5,000 to sponsor a child? Suuure, just let me double-check with my accountant. 

But after a few glasses of wine, there are exceptions. Always exceptions. 

(Like the previous year when Handsome and my girlfriend's husband attended this popular auction and the duo was last spotted holding the stems of three wine glasses whereas, I, relegated to the job of auction volunteer, was stone-cold sober; and only later when Handsome approached me and slurred, I'm sorry, did I learn that my faithful husband, in an elated drunken state that had been rapidly propelled into a frenzied nirvana by the rhythmic chanting of the auctioneer succubus, raised their paddle--and won--four bottles of wine for the low, low price of $3,000.)

Um, yeah. The men were definitely staying home this year.

I, on the other hand, needed a dress. And not just any ordinary dress. I needed a dress that could blend in with the haute couture crowd. 

I practically lunged at the brushed-gold number hanging on the rack. It had the right amount of bling: neither understated nor overwhelming. And I loved the detailed stitching on the back:

But the straps kept falling off my shoulders (don't you hate that?), and the shiny fabric highlighted and over-accentuated my curves (which bordered on unflattering in some areas). Yet most heinous was that my ladies--my beautiful, life-giving ladies--looked like they were crumpled up and tossed into the trash. 

This dress offered zero support--which was promptly explained when I looked at the tag: BCBG. Wait a minute... this dress was made for Juniors! Probably a girl wore this to her prom--and with ladies as firm as green mangoes to boot!

Then an idea hit me. Maybe, just maybe it would work... I needed to rush home and pilfer through my supplies closet. If it was a match, I had this number's number. I could prove I was still the boss of this garment.

Let's see what I did...

Transforming Miss Thing into Mr. Kid

You've probably guessed by now that I'm not the only Second-Hand Rose of the household. Handsome and the Caped Crusader are in the business, too. 

In fact, this used-clothing lifestyle was instigated by the Caped Crusader's arrival. When he was an infant, I'd pack him in the stroller and walk to the thrift stores to pilfer through mountains of kids clothes. Gradually, I built a marvelous arsenal of clothing (sizes 1T to 10) that includes Hanna Andersson, Gymboree, Gap, Mini Boden, Ralph Lauren, and Columbia Sportswear.

And occasionally, I'd spot something so cute in the Junior section I'd throw it in my shopping basket--even if it was a pre-teen girl's jacket. 

Huh???

Yep, the pre-teen girl's jacket. An important accessory to the Miss Thing outfit. Miss Thing wears jeans cut so low, le crack du derriere makes a daily appearance. Miss Thing also wears jackets cut so high, Mademoiselle Bellybutton plays peek-a-boo. 

But is this really her fault when the fashion industry insists on cutting girl's clothing just like women's? I've personally witnessed the debut of one too many le cracks from toddler girls who innocently bend down to pick up blocks with chubby fingers. Now that's madness. 

But back to the Miss Thing jacket. 

I believe it's out of style hence the over-abundance of midriff-loving garments at the thrift stores. And preschool parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles can take advantage of this out-dated look.

It's very simple. Just cut off the arms:

Finish the edges with your machine:

 And throw it on your kid like this:

The Caped Crusader loved his Miss Thing jacket. His first remark when he wiggled into it was, "Oh! So cozy!" And he wore it for ten days straight until its inevitable demise into the Black Hole of Children's Clothing and Favorite Toys. 

Its last sighting was at preschool. 

Miss Portland

For those of you without kids, a playgroup is just how it sounds: it's a group of kids and their primary caregivers who get together on a weekly basis to play. And we do indeed play. 

Playgroup is my mid-week haven. It's a day when the Caped Crusader will run off with friends while I reclaim some precious time to sit on a couch and chat about some seriously random stuff with really cool moms. I love it. And I desperately want our playgroup routine to remain the same for, oh, about the next 14 years. 

But something recently happened which threw a wrench into our smooth sailing tribe:  one of the moms decided to get pregnant. 

Hmph! This was not part of the master playgroup plan. I mean, the playgroup is its own entity--it has needs. And a future damp, googley-eyed worm--this toothless, hairless human--was the one holding the wrecking ball.

The thought was so beautiful and sweet that, in between giggles, the other moms and I decided to celebrate the intruder's entry into this world with a baby shower. And I required a dress for the special celebration.

I found one (Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! SILK!) at my neighborhood thrift store. The dress and I exchanged a steady gaze. There was something vaguely familiar about it... Like an old friend...

Then it hit me. This was a dress I might have worn in my Miss Portland days--my carefree, twenty-something years when nerdy-cool was hip and the standard accessories included a barrette, thick-framed glasses, white tights and Mary Jane shoes (and if you wanted to upgrade the look, you donned several tattoos and/or body piercings). This was a time when I used to make miniskirts out of vintage polyester fabric, and pair them with tight raver shirts and fake patent leather Mary Janes, so stiff I could tap dance in 'em; then I'd hop into Handsome's hand-me-down car, named The Corn Tortilla, and we'd head straight to the 1201, the hippest (and possibly smokiest) bar in town.

This dress was the '90's revisited! And it was soooo Portland. But--yikes!--the dress' youthful vigor was too much for my nearly forty-year old self. 

This Miss needed to be tamed into a Ms. And I needed to prove to my old friend who was boss. Let's see what I did...