CheekyChicago

I must admit to a preternatural affinity towards shopping and adornments. Melba, my 92-year-old grandmother, is partially responsible. Visits to her followed a set schedule: first, a dip into her wardrobe to try on her mink stole, reserved for only special occasions, perhaps a quick survey of what was new in the closet, then a searching inquiry into the state of her jewelry box (did the diamond and ruby cocktail ring fit ANY of my fingers yet?) and then, after all was regarded as well and accounted for, a trip to Von Maur – a store that, in Melba’s Iowa-informed estimation, was a pinnacle of haute couture and excellent customer service. We would spend hours together perusing the racks, commenting on the quality of the fabrics – what was Stone Mountain thinking when they launched that new handbag??? I was seven.

The blame is only partially Melba’s to shoulder. As a young child, I produced very short one-woman plays. The story line never deviated: I played a young child who was very, very ill. There would be no possibility I would summon the strength to attend school, although my character desperately wanted to. After the act, while I was safely encased in my makeshift sick bed on our family room couch, I would flip on the TV. In the early 80’s, we didn’t have cable, but we did have Fox network. And Fox showed 1970’s reruns during the daytime.

Lynda Carter, as Diana Prince aka Wonder Woman, looked fantastic. Her crime-fighting skills were unparalleled by anyone in a swimsuit and gold pleather cuffs. After the rascals were lassoed and put away, she managed chic and elegant looks: blouson-sleeved dresses, slimming pants and turtlenecks and those windshield-sized glasses… Three’s Company was also foundational, and I’m not talking about Chrissy and Janet. Their low-cut blouses and short-shorts were too pedestrian. I’m talking Mrs. Roper. I was entranced with the way she could fill a room in her caftans, arms laden with bangles and sparkly bits, her hair always slightly out of control; she looked like she carried with her a daytime-chardonnay problem (and was loving it).

The Solid Gold dancers weren’t accessible via reruns, their performances were limited to nighttime – hours that should have been spent studying; learning essential life skills like reading and multiplication tables. But in my kid logic, nothing was more valuable than learning how to put together an eye-catching ensemble destined for the dance floor. Mind you, I wouldn’t be dancing on any floor, save that of my bedroom, for another decade or so – but I was prepared.

The savvy reader might, by this point, be wondering how my own mother placed in this lineup. She had her own look about her, one that I choose to call “falsely omniscient”; as though she had continuous secret information regarding an ever-impending flood. Yes, dear reader, my mother did, and does, wear high-water pants. Shopping with her as a child was an excruciating task. One did not have the option of lolly-gagging over Esprit bags and Benetton slouch sweaters – we made direct beelines to the clearance racks, where my mother would manage to pull each and every unfashionably practical piece out for her consideration and eventual purchase.

While my mother’s thriftiness was an embarrassment then, it’s a godsend today. From her, I learned how to be discerning with my dollars. Rather than go into credit card hell over a pair of Louboutins, I pack my fashion muses up and head off to a local consignment or thrift store for necessary wardrobe pick-me-ups. It’s how I manage to balance my addictions to snakeskin, muumuus and vintage couture with the reality of my income and other life expenses.

In my time here, I’ve found Chicago to be one of the best places to shop consignment and thrift stores. My closet is filled with Oscar de la Renta, Guy Laroche and Yves Saint Laurent, none of which I paid over $25 for. Think about it: we have a ton of really wealthy people who love clothes and always need to be seen in something different. So what if someone else wore that dress twice before it landed in your closet? You paid $12 for it and they paid $1200. Let their ego be your advantage! In my next article, I will teach you how to become a thrift maven. Regardless of who made a fashion impression on you, with a little perseverance and imagination, it’s possible to have a closet filled with unique and interesting pieces that get you compliments and “where did you get that’s.” I’ll be grinning with you when you demure and mummer, “Thank you, I don’t recall.”