The Fabric of Life

            “Molly?” I heard the big voice say over the intercom. “Molly Mullen, your mother is looking for you and worried. Where ever you are, come out please.” The big man voice said and had to spoil all the fun. See, I had found the best spot in the whole store. I peeled back the clothes like a curtain and step into a spinning colorful and textural world of magic. As people came in and browsed through items of clothing, I’d sit in the center of the clothing rack and watch. They’d look, spin, stop, look. Look, spin, stop, look. Look, spin, stop, and sometimes dig inside the piece to check the price tag. If the number was low enough, they’d place the hanger around their hand that was piling up other possible purchases. My mother almost tried to put me in one of the children leashes that you see parents holding at Disney World.

            When it came time for my birthday, it had to be themed. This particular year I decided to have a tea party. All the neighborhood girls would put on their Sunday best but no ensemble could be complete with out its accessories. Straw hats with a ribbon tied around the rim, dainty white cloth gloves, lace socks, and classic black Maryjane shoes would do just the tick. I, of course, would add an extra touch with my mother’s pearls, clip-on Pretty Pretty Princess earrings, and to make the outfit –a silver and diamond bedazzled tiara. But before we cut the cake I made an outfit change into my star spangled bannered bikini to show off to everyone (my birthday is on Flag Day after all).

            When I was able to pick out what I was able to wear to school, I always chose a dress. My favorite was a hand-me-down from my older sister. It was a pink, spaghetti strapped dress with a built-in, white frilled t-shirt underneath. The straps met in the middle with a silk rose bud on the front and my mom tied them together in the back since I still had a little more growing to do. It was snug until it hit my waist and it flowed out enough that when I spun around it twirled with me. That is, until my mom put me in private catholic school. I was furious that I was forced to put on dress that everyone else would be wearing. At least it was a flattering baby-blue cotton, pleated jumper and not plaid wool.  It wasn’t until I showed up to the bus stop and every 3^rd grade girl was wearing shorts. Heinous shorts, made out of the same color and material as my jumper but which bunched in the front and made them resemble the boys. I later found out they did this so they’d get picked to play flag football. I hated it. But eventually caved in to their appalling customs. Up until the 6^th grade and all the girls were required to wear skirts (Thank God).
            Every year for Christmas my mom’s dad would always give us gifts like Alaskan scented candles and or trivia book with animal facts. He finally caught on that we were trained to fake a reaction like, “Oh! Pop-Pop, how’d did you know I always wanted a Paint By Number of Big Ben?” when we unwrapped his presents. When I was in 7^th grade he gave me a year subscription of Seventeen Magazine. I made a booklet of cut outs from my favorite articles, hair tips, makeup guides, and clothing advice. I would make lists of new products to try when my mom made a CVS run and would thoughtfully premeditate my outfit for next weekend’s school dance. I was even voted “Most Likely to Become CEO of Seventeen Magazine” in my 8^th grade yearbook.

            Although I was not yet seventeen, I soon felt that I had outgrown their style. I replaced turning the pages of the magazine with running my fingers through the clothing racks with my eyes closed to just simply feel the fabrics. Finding sheer cheetah button downs at T.J.Maxx or the perfect balance of Megan Fox and biker chick leather jackets in Lloehmann’s became a weekend hobby. I would collect new and old, cargo and lace, leather and turquoise contrasts alike.

            I quickly began to crave more originality than I was getting from retail stores and stumbled upon small boutiques and antique malls near me. The personal touches of the beading on a velvet belt or the uniqueness of pearled rings that are adjustable to any finger and rusted engraved necklaces. I am drawn to pieces I collect from stores that I feel a connection to. I think as if they had a life before me and I am resurrecting their relevance. Or perhaps it is the articles of clothing I choose to wear that give me life, that give me a new story to tell. 

The Girl That Almost Got Away

As the sun went down the temperature dropped, just enough to have to wear a sweater out –for June, is the winter season in Peru. It was the weekend and a very festive time of year. Stephany Flores, a 21-year-old native, was out with friends at a Casino. It was there in the midst of gambling and risk she took a chance on a tall, handsome European.

             Jordan van der Sloot, was originally from Holland and vacationing to get away. Unfortunately for Stephany, she wasn’t aware what he needed to get away from. “Want to head back to my place, I know more games we can play,” van der Sloot whispered to Stephany and on an adventurous whim she accepted van der Sloot’s request, where they would continue to test each other’s luck.

            Gambling wasn’t the only thing Stephany wasn’t too lucky to stumble upon that evening. She came across something on Jordan’s computer. A face. A young, beautiful face that looked oddly familiar. She wasn’t an actress, but she definitely was a well-known American. “What’s that you found?” Jordan asked. When he looked at the screen and saw what Stephany had been looking out, it was as if he completely transformed. What had been a charming European all of a sudden became a man full of lethal rage. It was then when Flores’ realized whom that face was and why Jordan had it on his computer. That face belonged to the front page of every magazine, the face of a girl, Natalee Holloway, who went missing on a trip to Aruba when she was 18. And the man she had thought would make for a fun night was the number one suspect for her death.

            His eyes pierced her with fierceness, “Who do you think you are going through my things?” he screamed at Flores’. Stephany didn’t know what was the truth, but knew she’d be gambling a lot more than chips if she were to stay in his room any longer. “I think it’s for me to go,” She said walking towards the door. Van der sloot was too large of a man to dodge around and too strong escape his grasp if he was to ever get a hold on her. But he got her. “Get your hands off of me!” Flores screamed as loud as she could before he got her in a chokehold and hit her so hard that her neck snapped. And there lay Stephany, as if asleep, as if she was just another young woman dreaming about the life she had ahead. The life she was about to begin. 

ARTICLE:

SOURCES:

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504083_162-20006709-504083.html

http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Media/joran-van-der-sloot-confession-girl-intruded-private/story?id=10853209#.TxcK6GD2XAc

Romeo Romeo Wherefore Art Thou My Glass Slipper?

            The most flawless article of clothing I own is right now delicately stuffed and properly packaged in my closet at home (for I would never place a toe in the kitchen of a Beaver Hill apartment or basement of a frat party with these). It is a pair of Steve Madden circa 2008 black heels. Suede runs down the sides to meet at the peep toe and wraps around until it kiss the kitten heel. They are simplicity with slimming and sleek sophistication. They are, in fact, the first pair of heels I ever bought myself. When I slip these little bad boys on, it’s as if they were crafted to hug every curve and arch on my foot, like a new pair of underarmour socks with spandex-stretch technology. I used to think they fit, as if they were my very own glass slippers in my own little fairytale.

             You see, I bought them to go with this black lace, heart shaped dress that so elegantly flowed right above my knees (because I went to a strict private catholic high school) that I was going to wear to my high school’s fall dance, “The Harvest Moon.” My date was a boy whose stars were crossed with mine ever since he played on the same t-ball team as my older brother. Well, at least I had always thought so. He didn’t agree until the summer our families decided to save money and rent a house at the Jersey Shore together and we were forced to spend two weeks together in the same house, in very tight corridors. I was just out my freshman year of high school, expecting an exciting summer that I could brag to everyone about at the lunch table once school started up again, like the articles I would read in Seventeen Magazine.  While he was just looking for a break from his on going baseball season. I hadn’t seen him in years, but I think the fact that I had grown into myself from the chubby, annoying friend’s little sister to now a decently proportioned and almost attractive teenage girl took him getting used to. After playing footsy under the dinner table and catching eye glances at each other in our bathing suits for a week he snuck down stairs to my room after I went to bed to knock on my door. I woke up puzzled by who was standing at my door before me and asked, “What are you doing?” and he, who looked as if he could be asking himself the same question, responds, “I just had to see you again.” Even though I had spent almost every waking moment with him, his family, and my own – my hopelessly romantic, untouched teenage heart was officially his, which I completely surrendered to him after he leaned in for our first kiss.

            Fast forward a month of sneaking kisses behind closet doors and stealthily changing his name in my phone so no one would ask questions, the gig was up. My own version of one of Taylor Swift’s loved sick songs was about to get ripped to shreds because my mother caught me whispering into my phone late one night talking to him and thought it would be a “smart” idea to tell my brother. And just as Juliet Capulet's cousin, Tybalt, was fiercely defensive and quick to draw his sword on Romeo, so was my brother too easily satisfied with kicking the crap out of my Romeo—leaving him with two black eyes and bloody elbows. But unlike any other logical boy, my Romeo didn’t care. He still wanted to be with me. Even though our families now resented our relationship, my brother still had pent up anger he’d be willing to release on him at any chance he got, and all of my friends thought I was crazy for dating a senior boy –we thought us against the world was weirdly romantic in a doomed, emotionally crushing movie kind of way.

            So these shoes were meant for that night under The Harvest Moon and us. The black suede well suited for I was a rebel now for not listening to mom and dad, sophisticated because I was cool enough to date an older boy, and a short heel was a safe call to make sure I wasn’t too tall and could dance in them all night long. Thankfully our fates weren’t as morbid as the original Romeo and Juliet but just like that perfect night, our dysfunctional puppy love relationship had to come to a closing. I have since upgraded to paten leather stilettos that are abused and scuffed from trucking all across Penn State’s college campus just like my hopes in finding a new Romeo. Ironically enough, I only find my Steve Madden black-peep toe-kitten heels appropriate for funerals now.