Friday, June 06, 2003

We received all kinds of wardrobe advice from people before going to Cannes. To walk the red carpet, and there actually was one, I could not get away with pants. And my shoes had to be expensive: nothing from Payless. It’s only recently that we’ve started shopping at anything more haute than charity thrift stores. (“Gently worn” and resale stores seemed too elegant.) Once Danielle came to live with us, we moved up to places like Value City so she could wear the kind of jeans and sneakers that allowed her to blend in with the “Lord of the Flies” crowd at school. At first, the choices were a little overwhelming. When you go to a thrift store to buy a navy blue sweater you look until you find one in your size with no visible stains or moth holes. That’s your sweater. Eventually, though, I got used to the racks and the rows. I borrowed some very expensive, never worn shoes from a friend who had gone to an estate sale. The original $295 receipt was still in the box and the toes were stuffed with tissue paper. Pretty classy, except no one warned me that lady shoes, unlike my rubber soled sandals and sneakers, were built to glide. Make that slide. When I actually hit the red tread, I felt like I was learning to skate. Still, people saw what they wanted to see. Shari Springer Berman pointed out an article that was written about us by a reporter who interviewed us one breezy day by the Mediterranean. It was solemnly reported that Harvey was somehow uncouth and I was wearing a plebian green hooded sweatshirt. This is because I come from Cleveland. Joanna Connors, from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, would have seen a sea foam colored poplin windbreaker, tailored by London Fog and bought at 40% off from Kaufman’s. And it matched my skirt, blouse and socks 9:22:42 AM