He's pretty fly for a toddler guy.

I find it impossible to dress myself these days. I wear the same jeans/tee/shapeless cardigan every frapping day, which would be okay if I didn't live in the most fashion-conscious city on Earth. I'd love to be one of those women who can go into a thrift store and find pull together a look, or who has 10 good pieces that they mix and match. (I once had a woman tell me that all I really needed was an Hermes bag. Right. I'll get right on that.) But aside from my favorite floppy brown cap, I rarely find things that feel like "me."

My son, however, looks fly.

Seriously, I dress the hell out of that kid. Granted, it's easy to dress well when your shirt only costs $3. Oversized fedoras, jackets, anything from Stella McCartney for Gap. (Thank you, sale rack.) I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't hoping to influence his taste. Let's face it; one less jerk walking around in an Ed Hardy shirt would make the world a better place.

Still, I feel a little guilty imposing my style choices on the little guy. We splurged and bought him a mini kick scooter the other day. Several kids in Owen's class have them and he is obsessed. He wakes up from nap talking about them, cries big fat tears on the playground when he can't play with one... So when it came to picking out the color, I figured I'd let him choose. The conversation went something like this:

Me: "What color do you like?"
Owen: "Blue!"
Me: "Mmmm... How about orange?"
Owen: "Blue!"
Me: "What about teal?"
Owen (confused): "Blue?"

We went with orange.

This is going to come back and haunt me, right? He's going to hit second grade and start wearing his pants hanging off his tush because I dressed him like a tiny professor. But until he walks over and buys a Bob the Builder sweatshirt with his own money, I figure I get to have my say.

In the meantime, I need some spring clothes. Any thoughts on what to wear when the weather's hot?

Where art thou, Depeche Mode?

On Friday night I did something I haven't done since I was in high school: I went dancing.

I know. I can't believe it either.

For those who don't know me, I am not exactly the "clubbing" type. I hate crowds and loud music. I refuse to pay a cover. I also have deeply rooted aversion to leaving the house after dark. Not only was the band at a club downtown (bouncer? Check. Velvet rope? Check and check) but the gig started at midnight. As in midnight. As in approximately 5 hours before a certain toddler-sized rooster starts crowing for the day. But it was my birthday this week (still mentioning it) and I decided that the best way to celebrate was by telling my comfort zone to frak off. So I rang up Scott, the lead singer of a wildly popular 80's band, Rubix Kube, and asked if I could come to the show. So what if I hadn't talked to him in over a decade? If you think that was going to stop me from begging for passes, you don't know me at all.

And friends, it was awesome.

How awesome was it? THEY PLAYED ERASURE. Scott got us entry to the VIP area but we only spent about 3 minutes with the beautiful people before racewalking to the dance floor. Not that that stopped us from flashing our VIP wristbands at every opportunity. ("Oh, you DON'T need to see my VIP wristband to go to the bathroom?") The crowd was heavy on the douchebags (holding up your thumb like a lighter and shoving it into the face of the singers for 5 entire songs? Not nearly as funny as you think it is) but at least everybody seemed keen on having a good time. Nothing sucks more than watching a bunch of hipsters roll their eyes when all you want to do is raise your hands in the air like you don't care. And I did. I totally did. At one point I even got freak danced! Which was totally awkward! Thank god my friend Amanda was there. Being air-humped by a guy in a baseball cap is even more hilarious when there's someone there to share in the weirdness.

Seriously, it was one of the most fun nights I've had in years. Maybe ever. Rumor has it there are pictures...

My next life will be art directed by Anthropologie.

It's official - there are no clothes that fit me.

Because it was my birthday (did I mention?) the Powers That Be at Banana Republic descended with a 50% off coupon, which is really the only way I could afford to shop there. (Yes, Banana Republic is my ceiling. Man, I need to get a job.) But here's the thing - nothing fits. How hard is it to make flattering jeans? I know I'm not alone in loathing the low-rise. Has no one given birth?! Alls I want is something that covers the muffin top and skims the leg. No weird washes or creases or artificial tears. No stupid "skinny jeans." Over the muffin. Skim the leg. Not. That. Hard.

So what did I purchase with my magic coupon? A pair of jeans. Giant, giant jeans. They call them a "boyfriend" fit which sounds sexy but really just translates into baggy. Baggy is a big seller in my life. I've never met an oversized anything I didn't like. I am aware of this because I'm going dancing tomorrow and I have nothing in my closet that doesn't swallow me. I used to look good. I was actually sort of known for my sense of style, back when I had disposable income and a waist. I wore things that were cute and could be dry cleaned. Now I wear cliches. (Cue any movie featuring a frazzled housewife.) It's not that I want to look sexy - I'm long past earning a double take - but the lead singer is an friend of mine that I haven't seen in over a decade and I'd like not to look like a parent.

Anybody found the holy grail of shopping? Clothes that look good on someone other than a model?

I say it's my birthday

Yep, that's right. I'm officially older. While my body may not be as awesome as it once was, I think the 30's are totally underrated as a decade. (I can't be the only person whose 20's sucked.) In honor of me, I've decided to take the day off. I realize that to outsiders my "day off" may look no different than any other day (the appearance of not working is harder to pull off when you don't have an actual job) but mentally it's a whole 'nother world. This morning I took Owen to Central Park instead of our usual scuzzy playground. We ate cheddar bunnies and parked ourselves at a giant sandbox and looked for helicopters in the big blue sky. (I wonder how many cats pee in those sandboxes at night...) On the walk home I narrowly avoided the calorie bomb that is our newly opened donut/ice cream shop, but don't you worry - I'll be back. I think I'll round out this afternoon with a trip to the world's coolest playground (that's it up there) followed by some homemade cake. Now if I could just get in a massage and a lottery win...