was trying on, or when I told her she looked like a princess in a sequined Albert Nipon strapless dress. Pretty soon, asking my opinion about clothes was no longer her way of keeping my interest so I wouldn’t get into trouble—mine was an opinion that counted. This way of life continues to this day. It was also where an endless bond began.
In the early eighties, while shopping in Bloomingdale’s during a day trip to Manhattan, walking over those black-and-white-checked tiles, following my mother back and forth and back and forth, I came across a pair of incredibly cool Fiorucci electric sky blue jeans. They were soooo Debbie Harry and I was sure if my mom just tried them on, she’d see they’d be soooo Arlene Halpern. My ten-year-old begging pursued throughout the various departments. “I just want to see what they look like,” I nagged, and as my pleading began to grind on her nerves, she grabbed the pants from me and threw them over her other tweed and turtleneck possibilities.
Once inside the dressing room, Arlene, who had always gone for Anne Klein classic suit looks rather than Fiorucci trends, grabbed her first item, an Ellen Tracy camel colored skirt that went with a white brocaded top. My anxiousness couldn’t take it anymore.
“No, try these first,” I said, handing her the jeans.
Begrudgingly, Arlene put her first leg into the pants. It was already clear that they fit like they were made for her. Visions of my mother picking me up from school in front of all the kids in her Fiorucci electric sky blue jeans danced in my head. Everyone would be so jealous that my mom was obviously the chic mom. She watched herself as closely as I did in the mirror as she slipped her other leg into the pants Maybe she’d even give up the forest green Oldsmobile and get a Datsun 280ZX or a Porsche like Aunt Gail Sernoff had. My mother held in her stomach as she buttoned and zipped up the jeans. There she was: Arlene Rudney Halpern, the with-it, most modish dressed mom in the entire Main Line suburbs of Philadelphia. With those pants, she wouldn’t even care anymore when my brothers and I begged for Cheez Doodles and SpaghettiOs She would be too busy fending off those talent scouts who wanted her to come out to Hollywood and be in a movie with Burt Reynolds or, dare I even dream, be the fourth of Charlie’s Angels.
“You know what,” she mumbled to herself within the confines of our minute dressing room, “after three kids,” she continued, turning to catch a glimpse of her butt, “I could still wear a pair of pants like these.”
“YOU HAVE TO GET THEM!” I screamed, causing a woman a few doors down to let out a “Shhhh,” as if we were in a library or something.
“Oh, please.” Arlene grimaced, unbuttoning my dreams and slipping off our glamorous future. “I’m a doctor’s wife.”
We left Bloomingdale’s that day with my mother’s purchase of two turtleneck sweaters and a corduroy blazer. Whether it was my perseverance or Arlene’s realization that she had been suffering from an acute case of negative body image, she purchased for herself a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, much to my euphoric delight.
Two weeks later, Arlene was shopping in a plant store and tripped over a mislaid garden hose. As she fell to the concrete, the force of her fall tore holes in both knees of the jeans. My mother had chipped the bone in her right kneecap and was forced to wear a cast for six weeks. When I saw her throw the ruined jeans into the trash, I feared the worst; there would never be flash in her wardrobe again. The day she got the cast off, however, we went directly to Saks, where she bought a brand-new pair of Calvin Klein jeans. My opinion had counted.
These days, the Los Angeles Barneys department store is my home away from home. I love to arrive at Barney Greengrass, the restaurant inside Barneys, at 1:10 sharp to meet a friend for lunch. One o‘clock lunch is the busiest time at Barney Greengrass, and
In the early eighties, while shopping in Bloomingdale’s during a day trip to Manhattan, walking over those black-and-white-checked tiles, following my mother back and forth and back and forth, I came across a pair of incredibly cool Fiorucci electric sky blue jeans. They were soooo Debbie Harry and I was sure if my mom just tried them on, she’d see they’d be soooo Arlene Halpern. My ten-year-old begging pursued throughout the various departments. “I just want to see what they look like,” I nagged, and as my pleading began to grind on her nerves, she grabbed the pants from me and threw them over her other tweed and turtleneck possibilities.
Once inside the dressing room, Arlene, who had always gone for Anne Klein classic suit looks rather than Fiorucci trends, grabbed her first item, an Ellen Tracy camel colored skirt that went with a white brocaded top. My anxiousness couldn’t take it anymore.
“No, try these first,” I said, handing her the jeans.
Begrudgingly, Arlene put her first leg into the pants. It was already clear that they fit like they were made for her. Visions of my mother picking me up from school in front of all the kids in her Fiorucci electric sky blue jeans danced in my head. Everyone would be so jealous that my mom was obviously the chic mom. She watched herself as closely as I did in the mirror as she slipped her other leg into the pants Maybe she’d even give up the forest green Oldsmobile and get a Datsun 280ZX or a Porsche like Aunt Gail Sernoff had. My mother held in her stomach as she buttoned and zipped up the jeans. There she was: Arlene Rudney Halpern, the with-it, most modish dressed mom in the entire Main Line suburbs of Philadelphia. With those pants, she wouldn’t even care anymore when my brothers and I begged for Cheez Doodles and SpaghettiOs She would be too busy fending off those talent scouts who wanted her to come out to Hollywood and be in a movie with Burt Reynolds or, dare I even dream, be the fourth of Charlie’s Angels.
“You know what,” she mumbled to herself within the confines of our minute dressing room, “after three kids,” she continued, turning to catch a glimpse of her butt, “I could still wear a pair of pants like these.”
“YOU HAVE TO GET THEM!” I screamed, causing a woman a few doors down to let out a “Shhhh,” as if we were in a library or something.
“Oh, please.” Arlene grimaced, unbuttoning my dreams and slipping off our glamorous future. “I’m a doctor’s wife.”
We left Bloomingdale’s that day with my mother’s purchase of two turtleneck sweaters and a corduroy blazer. Whether it was my perseverance or Arlene’s realization that she had been suffering from an acute case of negative body image, she purchased for herself a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, much to my euphoric delight.
Two weeks later, Arlene was shopping in a plant store and tripped over a mislaid garden hose. As she fell to the concrete, the force of her fall tore holes in both knees of the jeans. My mother had chipped the bone in her right kneecap and was forced to wear a cast for six weeks. When I saw her throw the ruined jeans into the trash, I feared the worst; there would never be flash in her wardrobe again. The day she got the cast off, however, we went directly to Saks, where she bought a brand-new pair of Calvin Klein jeans. My opinion had counted.
These days, the Los Angeles Barneys department store is my home away from home. I love to arrive at Barney Greengrass, the restaurant inside Barneys, at 1:10 sharp to meet a friend for lunch. One o‘clock lunch is the busiest time at Barney Greengrass, and
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