Are you the victim of frequently asked questions? When meeting new people at a party, do their inquiries usually gravitate toward a particular subject beyond the usual, "What do you do?" and "How do you know the host/hostess?" Are these unusually-direct questions pervasive no matter the social setting? From my many observations, Mary is subject to two FAQ's. "Gee whiz, how tall are you?" And, "Where are you from?"
Having been born and raised in California (with any cultural or ethnic identity completely bred out of us by previous generations trying their best to be "American"), it never occurred to me that people would think that we were anything but plain, old slices of America's most-tasteless, white bread. Upon meeting our family, even a few of our now good friends needed some convincing (in the form of government-issued documentation) that we were not of foreign extraction. It was truly puzzling because I didn't think we looked so very different from everybody else. We acted the same. We spoke the same. For gosh sakes, we had the American flag flying in our yard!
|And then I realized that we were sending mixed signals...|
Made with the intention of being a back-to-school dress last year (what, college kids don't get new back-to-school clothes?), this most recently-worn frock is yet another item from Mr. Tiny's
sweatshop workshop that was forced to learn to love the deepest recesses of Mary's closet as it watched other skirts, and blouses, and dresses issued reprieve and enter into regular rotation. Just when it thought it was going to go crazy in stir, this jumper was granted pardon and allowed to leave the dark confines of Mary's wardrobe.
In making/styling it, I thought that this little number was sort of a nostalgic nod to collegiate costumes of yesteryear. Seeing it all put together, however, I half expected Mary to be selling schnitzel in the Schwarzwald.
Corny? Costume-y? In a way, that is wacky tacky - pushing the boundaries of everyday design ever so slightly for the sake of silliness.
|The fabric came from the discount section of one of my favorite local fabric|
stores where the only rotation in stock occurs when someone finally buys
the remnants. I'm convinced that some of the material is older than I am.
Our accordion nights are always progressive in nature; we make our way from bierstube to banquet hall, invariably ending up at the Thursday night ballroom dance. There is a cover charge that we always seem to avoid by being the youngest people in the room by at least fifty years. Last time, a woman, whom I later found out was the onsite ballroom instructor, credited me with being "a natural." You'd better believe that "Old Twinkle Toes" over here has been lording that over people's heads ever since!
|Barefoot on the ballroom floor|
Always a class act!
As it turns out, we do have German ancestry so it is no wonder that we get on so well at the German Club; Mary practically blends right in. And at least, for one night, her FAQ's varied from the typical height/nationality variety. In fact, in her back-to-school/Bavaria get-up, she learned pretty quickly how to answer, "Can we get another round of beers over here?" and "May I please have a pretzel?" in her most elementary German. "Nein!"