The other side of Volvo-style

For parents who always expounded the virtues of not just proper grammar but beautifully constructed proper grammar, my Mother and Father sure did stick me with one hell of pronunciation pickle when it comes to my given name and the nickname by which I was exclusively known until the age of 24 when my graduate school adviser advised me to "select" something else.

"Anything else," I believe he put it.

But well before I arrived at that rather humbling moment, it was at the tender age of eight when I confronted the more tell it like it is half of my parental unit using my already seasoned brand of passive-aggressiveness for advice on how to remedy the frustration that was my constantly mispronounced names:

"Dad..."

"Mmmhmm?"

"Can I ask you something? It's important."

"Of course, what is it?"

"How would you say the word, 't-a-n-n-i-n-g'?"

"The word, what? Uh...tanning. Why?"

"How would you say, 'p-i-n-n-e-d'?"

"Pinned."

"What about, 'r-u-n-n...'"

"Is there a point to this exercise, Johanna, and if so, are we nearing it? I have exams to grade and..."

"The point, Dad, is that I don't understand why the second syllable of my given name and the first syllable of my nickname are pronounced with a short 'o' when every other word with that vowel/consonant arrangement has taught me to use a short 'a'."

(turning away from his desk and toward me, lowering his bifocals, smiling)

"Good grief, you. I've created a monster."

What does this dilemma -one for which a satisfying resolution wasn't reached until my teenage years when I finally discovered "Johanna" and "Hannie" were originally assigned to me with traditional German pronunciations and thus not meant to be held to the same phonetic rules as their American counterparts- have to do with what happened to me at the airport on Monday or the Volvo-style epiphany to which I alluded in yesterday's post?

Plenty, actually.

Due to my parents' insistence I assume a name with an affectation unnatural to those in this country, people will more likely get my name wrong than right. Over time, I've trained myself to let the "Joannas," the "Johannahs" and the "Hannees" slide right by, correcting only those with whom I knew I would have a close and continuing relationship and being sure to do so in an almost self-deprecating manner so as to preempt any unnecessary apologies that might follow.

Likewise, now that my hair is at a length more commonly associated with the opposite sex, people are much more likely to misidentify my gender. Big deal. Sunday was not the first time, and I don't expect it will be the last. As with the name situation, I don't see any real benefit to my raising the issue with the Dereks of the world other than to boost my own sense of "I'm right/you're wrong"-edness, which frankly, by the end of the day, smacks more of pathetic than victorious.

And now, finally, the epiphany.

In the past two months, I've had encounters with three women, all of these women extremely well-intentioned and all of them brazen enough to approach me, a complete stranger, at a party, on the street and in a department store for no other reason than to pay me an "I love your _____" compliment.

But the thing was, unlike the majority of admirers who offer their "I love your _____" praise and move on, this trio of women took their liking of my shoes, bracelet and coat a step further by unknowingly misidentifying them as items they just plain weren't.

And let me be clear, when I say misidentify, I mean really, really misidentify.

If you'll recall, a woman with something I like to call "Volvo-style" is a woman who dresses no less luxe than her Lamborghini lot-mate but does so in a much less overt, much less attention-whoring manner; she's the one in Jil Sander and Calvin Klein, not Cavalli and Fendi. Not surprisingly, I aspire to the idea of the former, and up until a couple of months ago when I had my first of the three aforementioned interactions, I thought I had been well on my way.

Thought would be the operative word.

I was wrong, for a Volvo woman, I have come to realize, is much more than just her sleek paint job and minimalist high-end stereo system, she is also the embodiment of fashion humility, someone who, even when given a gift-wrapped opportunity to sit alone atop braggart butte prefers the view down below where she can comfortably mingle with all models and makes. She owns a room gradually, quietly, more effectively.

A Volvo woman is the type who, when asked by an unobservant but awfully sweet woman at a formal event if she, too, purchased her "awesome" patent leather pumps at Ross for $29.99 would smile and either falsely acknowledge she had, or if white lies aren't her thing, avoid the question altogether by offering up a compliment on what a fantastic bargain her new acquaintance had found in her admittedly "very similar" shoes.

She would not, however, scrunch her face into a mess of hurt, insult and fury, and without thinking, launch into a story of how she'd bought her MARNI pumps at SAKS and how they'd been her SPLURGE of the Christmas season and how even though they were EXPENSIVE what was the point of owning well-made DESIGNER SHOES if one didn't wear them out every chance one got?

Believe me, no sooner had the words tumbled out of my mouth than I was looking for a hiding spot and an Opus Dei cilice. I might've been wearing a simple black dress with small onyx studs but my outburst made me feel as tacky, overaccessorized and logo-emblazoned as Eve circa 2002.

The subsequent interactions concerning my bracelet and Winter coat were not nearly as regretful as the one with my shoes, but all three incidents forced me to recognize I'm very much a Volvo in training at this point, because even though it may not be overt, it may not be exclusive and it may not be frequent, there is no denying I still flush with misguided pride over the enhanced status wearing a higher quality bit or bauble affords me.

In sum, I've let my dentist call me "Joanna" for years, and I laugh it off when airport security mistakes me for a man; it's only fitting the next time a nice stranger calls my ____ "awesome" and compares their ____ to mine -whether there is or isn't a several hundred dollar difference between the two- I will be much more careful not to let the little bit of Lamborghini I have inside of me creep its way down the driveway again.

The other side of Volvo-style

For parents who always expounded the virtues of not just proper grammar but beautifully constructed proper grammar, my Mother and Father sure did stick me with one hell of pronunciation pickle when it comes to my given name and the nickname by which I was exclusively known until the age of 24 when my graduate school adviser advised me to "select" something else.

"Anything else," I believe he put it.

But well before I arrived at that rather humbling moment, it was at the tender age of eight when I confronted the more tell it like it is half of my parental unit using my already seasoned brand of passive-aggressiveness for advice on how to remedy the frustration that was my constantly mispronounced names:

"Dad..."

"Mmmhmm?"

"Can I ask you something? It's important."

"Of course, what is it?"

"How would you say the word, 't-a-n-n-i-n-g'?"

"The word, what? Uh...tanning. Why?"

"How would you say, 'p-i-n-n-e-d'?"

"Pinned."

"What about, 'r-u-n-n...'"

"Is there a point to this exercise, Johanna, and if so, are we nearing it? I have exams to grade and..."

"The point, Dad, is that I don't understand why the second syllable of my given name and the first syllable of my nickname are pronounced with a short 'o' when every other word with that vowel/consonant arrangement has taught me to use a short 'a'."

(turning away from his desk and toward me, lowering his bifocals, smiling)

"Good grief, you. I've created a monster."

What does this dilemma -one for which a satisfying resolution wasn't reached until my teenage years when I finally discovered "Johanna" and "Hannie" were originally assigned to me with traditional German pronunciations and thus not meant to be held to the same phonetic rules as their American counterparts- have to do with what happened to me at the airport on Monday or the Volvo-style epiphany to which I alluded in yesterday's post?

Plenty, actually.

Due to my parents' insistence I assume a name with an affectation unnatural to those in this country, people will more likely get my name wrong than right. Over time, I've trained myself to let the "Joannas," the "Johannahs" and the "Hannees" slide right by, correcting only those with whom I knew I would have a close and continuing relationship and being sure to do so in an almost self-deprecating manner so as to preempt any unnecessary apologies that might follow.

Likewise, now that my hair is at a length more commonly associated with the opposite sex, people are much more likely to misidentify my gender. Big deal. Sunday was not the first time, and I don't expect it will be the last. As with the name situation, I don't see any real benefit to my raising the issue with the Dereks of the world other than to boost my own sense of "I'm right/you're wrong"-edness, which frankly, by the end of the day, smacks more of pathetic than victorious.

And now, finally, the epiphany.

In the past two months, I've had encounters with three women, all of these women extremely well-intentioned and all of them brazen enough to approach me, a complete stranger, at a party, on the street and in a department store for no other reason than to pay me an "I love your _____" compliment.

But the thing was, unlike the majority of admirers who offer their "I love your _____" praise and move on, this trio of women took their liking of my shoes, bracelet and coat a step further by unknowingly misidentifying them as items they just plain weren't.

And let me be clear, when I say misidentify, I mean really, really misidentify.

If you'll recall, a woman with something I like to call "Volvo-style" is a woman who dresses no less luxe than her Lamborghini lot-mate but does so in a much less overt, much less attention-whoring manner; she's the one in Jil Sander and Calvin Klein, not Cavalli and Fendi. Not surprisingly, I aspire to the idea of the former, and up until a couple of months ago when I had my first of the three aforementioned interactions, I thought I had been well on my way.

Thought would be the operative word.

I was wrong, for a Volvo woman, I have come to realize, is much more than just her sleek paint job and minimalist high-end stereo system, she is also the embodiment of fashion humility, someone who, even when given a gift-wrapped opportunity to sit alone atop braggart butte prefers the view down below where she can comfortably mingle with all models and makes. She owns a room gradually, quietly, more effectively.

A Volvo woman is the type who, when asked by an unobservant but awfully sweet woman at a formal event if she, too, purchased her "awesome" patent leather pumps at Ross for $29.99 would smile and either falsely acknowledge she had, or if white lies aren't her thing, avoid the question altogether by offering up a compliment on what a fantastic bargain her new acquaintance had found in her admittedly "very similar" shoes.

She would not, however, scrunch her face into a mess of hurt, insult and fury, and without thinking, launch into a story of how she'd bought her MARNI pumps at SAKS and how they'd been her SPLURGE of the Christmas season and how even though they were EXPENSIVE what was the point of owning well-made DESIGNER SHOES if one didn't wear them out every chance one got?

Believe me, no sooner had the words tumbled out of my mouth than I was looking for a hiding spot and an Opus Dei cilice. I might've been wearing a simple black dress with small onyx studs but my outburst made me feel as tacky, overaccessorized and logo-emblazoned as Eve circa 2002.

The subsequent interactions concerning my bracelet and Winter coat were not nearly as regretful as the one with my shoes, but all three incidents forced me to recognize I'm very much a Volvo in training at this point, because even though it may not be overt, it may not be exclusive and it may not be frequent, there is no denying I still flush with misguided pride over the enhanced status wearing a higher quality bit or bauble affords me.

In sum, I've let my dentist call me "Joanna" for years, and I laugh it off when airport security mistakes me for a man; it's only fitting the next time a nice stranger calls my ____ "awesome" and compares their ____ to mine -whether there is or isn't a several hundred dollar difference between the two- I will be much more careful not to let the little bit of Lamborghini I have inside of me creep its way down the driveway again.

The Coterie: testing the limits of texturing

The unofficial test for whether an item of clothing deserves to make the jump from the store shelf to my closet's shelf is that it has to strike me immediately and it has to strike me hard.

Occasionally, that must-have-it jolt comes in the form of a vibrant color or dramatic silhouette, other times I find it in the form of a unique sleeve, but most often, what most consistently draws me in and won't let me go is when I come across a skirt, blouse, jacket or dress whose showpiece nature is defined by its well-executed texturing.

Unlike a color or a cut, texturing, when done well and done tastefully, can make the difference between a dress that, at first blush, looks ho-hum and status-quo but upon closer inspection reveals the kind of detailing that makes its wearer feel as if she's walking around in a one-of-a-kind.

A textured shoulder will be the detail that separates your simple black sheath from the sea of other simple black sheaths in your office; a Winter coat that incorporates one type of texturing along the hem and another down the back is what will earn you -not the many J. Crew peacoaters- all those on-the-street "Oh my God, your coat is so cute!" compliments; a textured neckline is the distinguishing feature that makes the Stella & Jamie LLJ pictured above miles more memorable than its boring, boxy Wilson's counterpart.

I love texturing. Always have. But what I saw on Monday in nearly every designer's Fall/Winter '08 collection challenged my longstanding allegiance toward all cuts simple and sophisticated.

For what I saw was not just a textured back or a textured hem but rather a textured back and a textured hem and a textured neck, and across the bodice, a multitude of pleats, drapes, overlays, pintucks and dramatic interruptions of each of these with other pleats, drapes, overlays and pintucks.

During my run last night, I spent the entire hour -and thus missed the first half of "The Biggest Loser," despite its being directly in front of my face- dismissing ideas of what to call this particular trend.

Ultimately, I just went for the obvious -- texture upon texture (upon texture).

Enjoy.

Roping, ruching, and rolling at the neck
Jill Stuart

Cashmere blouson sleeves meet a series of grosgrain and satin overlays on the left,
silk crepe swathed in pleated mesh, cinched by canvas and leather on the right
Mint by Jodi Arnold

Lurex shoulders and dramatic jersey draping drawn in by a bow-shaped cummerbund
Julie Haus
Mesh-winged matte silk pleats buoyed by darted taffeta and bifurcated by velvet.
I want. I reeeeally want.
Bensoni

A veritable buffet of texturing, from tight blocks of ruching at the neck and hem, to a sprawling effect across the shoulders, to thin, longitudinal pleats on the bodice, to simple draping down the skirt
Iódice

This dress was on the short list for favorite item of the entire show, an honor earned more for its back than its front -- simply stunning.

Black mesh collides with ivory quilting collides with neon leather -- an '80s explosion!
Single Dress

The Coterie: testing the limits of texturing

The unofficial test for whether an item of clothing deserves to make the jump from the store shelf to my closet's shelf is that it has to strike me immediately and it has to strike me hard.

Occasionally, that must-have-it jolt comes in the form of a vibrant color or dramatic silhouette, other times I find it in the form of a unique sleeve, but most often, what most consistently draws me in and won't let me go is when I come across a skirt, blouse, jacket or dress whose showpiece nature is defined by its well-executed texturing.

Unlike a color or a cut, texturing, when done well and done tastefully, can make the difference between a dress that, at first blush, looks ho-hum and status-quo but upon closer inspection reveals the kind of detailing that makes its wearer feel as if she's walking around in a one-of-a-kind.

A textured shoulder will be the detail that separates your simple black sheath from the sea of other simple black sheaths in your office; a Winter coat that incorporates one type of texturing along the hem and another down the back is what will earn you -not the many J. Crew peacoaters- all those on-the-street "Oh my God, your coat is so cute!" compliments; a textured neckline is the distinguishing feature that makes the Stella & Jamie LLJ pictured above miles more memorable than its boring, boxy Wilson's counterpart.

I love texturing. Always have. But what I saw on Monday in nearly every designer's Fall/Winter '08 collection challenged my longstanding allegiance toward all cuts simple and sophisticated.

For what I saw was not just a textured back or a textured hem but rather a textured back and a textured hem and a textured neck, and across the bodice, a multitude of pleats, drapes, overlays, pintucks and dramatic interruptions of each of these with other pleats, drapes, overlays and pintucks.

During my run last night, I spent the entire hour -and thus missed the first half of "The Biggest Loser," despite its being directly in front of my face- dismissing ideas of what to call this particular trend.

Ultimately, I just went for the obvious -- texture upon texture (upon texture).

Enjoy.

Roping, ruching, and rolling at the neck
Jill Stuart

Cashmere blouson sleeves meet a series of grosgrain and satin overlays on the left,
silk crepe swathed in pleated mesh, cinched by canvas and leather on the right
Mint by Jodi Arnold

Lurex shoulders and dramatic jersey draping drawn in by a bow-shaped cummerbund
Julie Haus
Mesh-winged matte silk pleats buoyed by darted taffeta and bifurcated by velvet.
I want. I reeeeally want.
Bensoni

A veritable buffet of texturing, from tight blocks of ruching at the neck and hem, to a sprawling effect across the shoulders, to thin, longitudinal pleats on the bodice, to simple draping down the skirt
Iódice

This dress was on the short list for favorite item of the entire show, an honor earned more for its back than its front -- simply stunning.

Black mesh collides with ivory quilting collides with neon leather -- an '80s explosion!
Single Dress

How to A+ the A-line

Oh, the A-line...it's been such a good long time since I had one of your kind flush up against and around my lower-half.

I used to love you.

I used to write about you.

I used to wear you. A lot.

Like so many passions of days past, however, the flame of your novelty after so many years and so many wears finally flick-flick-flickered into indifference, out of which rose my newfound desire for your less housewifey, more mistressy slim-to-the-bod pencil counterpart.

But just because I'm not presently enamored with a particular look doesn't mean the rest of you shouldn't be and that I can't answer your questions pertaining thereto.

So, if you're a fan and regular wearer of the A-line but aren't sure with which above-the-waist wardrobe components to pair this cute cut for the most flattering effect, check back here later today for a few suggestions.

How to A+ the A-line

Oh, the A-line...it's been such a good long time since I had one of your kind flush up against and around my lower-half.

I used to love you.

I used to write about you.

I used to wear you. A lot.

Like so many passions of days past, however, the flame of your novelty after so many years and so many wears finally flick-flick-flickered into indifference, out of which rose my newfound desire for your less housewifey, more mistressy slim-to-the-bod pencil counterpart.

But just because I'm not presently enamored with a particular look doesn't mean the rest of you shouldn't be and that I can't answer your questions pertaining thereto.

So, if you're a fan and regular wearer of the A-line but aren't sure with which above-the-waist wardrobe components to pair this cute cut for the most flattering effect, check back here later today for a few suggestions.

May-jah Friday ('80s as inspiration edition)

With all the recent contention as to how worthwhile a contribution stereotypical '80s style has made to the current fashion landscape, I thought it only appropriate to dedicate today's May-jah Friday to the ten years that, in my opinion, yielded the most indulgently enjoyable music, movies and television.

And some of the most fun albeit not so universally flattering color schemes and cuts.

Inspired by one of my favorite songs, one of my all-time favorite cinematic scenes (those shoulders!) and one of my favorite groups of gorgeous cartoon sass-kittens, here is veritable proof, like it or not, that the 1980s are still very much with us.

Enjoy.

"Missing you" (John Waite)

Boyfriend blazer by Elizabeth & James
($395 at saks.com)

Rolled collar blouse by Cynthia Rowley
($275 at shopbop.com)Sleek jean by Rich & Skinny
($160 at ronherman.com)Daran peep-toe pump by L.A.M.B.
($335 at eluxury.com)

"Flashdance" (Jennifer Beals' best moment)

Bib-front top with bow by 3.1 Phillip Lim
(£245 at brownsfashion.com)
Pencil skirt by Teri Jon
($180 at nordstrom.com)'Wink & Whisper' seamed fishnets by Victoria's Secret
($15 at victoriassecret.com)
'Corta' patent pump by Christian Louboutin
($675 at saks.com)

"Truly Outrageous" (Jem & The Misfits)*

Fashion star earrings
($4.99 at shopintuition.com)Convertible tunic by Shelly Steffe
($144 at shopbop.com)

Lamé leggings by American Apparel
($40 at americanapparel.net)

Tri-color stiletto by Alessandro Dell'Acqua
($585 at shopbop.com)

*while running into someone in DC wearing this get-up would surely give me the giddies, the answer is a resounding no, I, myself, would not wear any of its components, save for those delicious Dell'Acquas.
**this marks my 1,750th post - I sincerely thank all of you for your continued readership and er, colorful commenting!

May-jah Friday ('80s as inspiration edition)

With all the recent contention as to how worthwhile a contribution stereotypical '80s style has made to the current fashion landscape, I thought it only appropriate to dedicate today's May-jah Friday to the ten years that, in my opinion, yielded the most indulgently enjoyable music, movies and television.

And some of the most fun albeit not so universally flattering color schemes and cuts.

Inspired by one of my favorite songs, one of my all-time favorite cinematic scenes (those shoulders!) and one of my favorite groups of gorgeous cartoon sass-kittens, here is veritable proof, like it or not, that the 1980s are still very much with us.

Enjoy.

"Missing you" (John Waite)

Boyfriend blazer by Elizabeth & James
($395 at saks.com)

Rolled collar blouse by Cynthia Rowley
($275 at shopbop.com)Sleek jean by Rich & Skinny
($160 at ronherman.com)Daran peep-toe pump by L.A.M.B.
($335 at eluxury.com)

"Flashdance" (Jennifer Beals' best moment)

Bib-front top with bow by 3.1 Phillip Lim
(£245 at brownsfashion.com)
Pencil skirt by Teri Jon
($180 at nordstrom.com)'Wink & Whisper' seamed fishnets by Victoria's Secret
($15 at victoriassecret.com)
'Corta' patent pump by Christian Louboutin
($675 at saks.com)

"Truly Outrageous" (Jem & The Misfits)*

Fashion star earrings
($4.99 at shopintuition.com)Convertible tunic by Shelly Steffe
($144 at shopbop.com)

Lamé leggings by American Apparel
($40 at americanapparel.net)

Tri-color stiletto by Alessandro Dell'Acqua
($585 at shopbop.com)

*while running into someone in DC wearing this get-up would surely give me the giddies, the answer is a resounding no, I, myself, would not wear any of its components, save for those delicious Dell'Acquas.
**this marks my 1,750th post - I sincerely thank all of you for your continued readership and er, colorful commenting!