I remember when I was a kid in the 1960s & 1970s & catalogs started to integrate. Every once in a while you’d see an African-American woman posing for Montgomery Ward. We had that catalog more than we had Sears, Roebuck, although we’d get that once every other year or so. It was really a big deal when this started happening.
It was by no means common though. It was really a big deal though when television sitcoms started to have African-American characters, like Julia (which I adored because she was so skinny & gorgeous) & The Jeffersons. There was also Clarence Williams III on The Mod Squad; Lloyd Haynes who played Pete Dixon, the history teacher on Room 222 (I went to Catholic school & was taught by nuns, so I was like, Golly, not only a male teacher, but a black male teacher! [& yes, I really did say Golly; my citified Philadelphia cousins used to call me Gomer Pyle]); not to mention all the sitcom spinoffs that followed.
In 1968, Title VIII of the Civil Rights Act (Fair Housing Act) was passed. This prohibited discrimination in housing-related transactions based on race, color, national origin, religion, sex, familial status (single families, pregnant women), or handicap (disability). I remember when this happened because advertising changed.
It used to be that when you were looking at ads for apartments or houses for sale in the Evening Star (the DC-area newspaper back then) or the Washington Post, the cute little families pictured would all be white (you know, sort of like the families in the Vera Bradley catalog circa 2008). Now, when you look at these ads, families of color are depicted. It seems so silly that we would have to pass a law to get this to happen. You have to be pretty cloistered if you never see an ethnic face. Of course, in this area, most of the people in the service-related industries (restaurants for example) are immigrants.
Knowledge of how advertising has changed over the decades makes the Vera Bradley catalog even more weird to me. I don’t think companies spend money on advertising without doing serious market research & analysis. So the question is, did Vera Bradley – the person or the company – make a conscious decision to market her things only to affluent whites? Is she trying to make a statement (through subliminal messages) that rich white girls carry Vera Bradley purses?
The anomaly of this all-white advertising stuck out like a sore thumb to me. I wonder if anyone else noticed it?
I wonder if the models in the Vera Bradley catalog watch golf? Somehow I doubt it. On page 19 of the catalog, there’s a list of the names of all the models that appear.
We have Blue, the “little furry friend” of VB, who happens to be the most endearing, in my opinion. I think he’s a Yorkie. Then there’s Bailey & her friend Molly, her mother Brenda & brother Brady. (Now I guess I have to get into a discussion of the merits [are there any?] of a woman who would name all her children with names that begin with the same letter.) The whole fam-damily is dripping with WASPishness.
Next is Sarah, friend of one of the Bradleys. The name Sarah is Hebrew for “princess” & was the fourth most popular baby girl name for white New Yorkers surveyed in 2004. She’s the most ethnic-looking one of the bunch – which is refreshing – but her (obviously) dark hair is dyed blonde. *sigh*
On page 6 is Carly, a VB summer intern. What a gig, huh? Cathy is pictured working up a sweat learning to be a tag-flipper at the local quasi-antiques emporium. Bet I’d go through some serious sticker shock checking the prices at stores in the Hamptons compared to what things cost at my local junk store.
Next? A group of little girls holding umbrellas & jumping a la Miss America on the seashore. We have Reagan (hold my head somebody), McKenzie, Savannah, Kaitlyn & Sarah, all daughters of the Vera Bradley Classic Steering Committee. Huh? Wonder what they do on that committee. Steering what? More non-ethnic customers to their goods? “Get their brand loyalty young” is the message here, I guess.
And who names their daughter Reagan? Should I guess when her birthday is? All the girls pictured look to be about 9 years old. Let’s see. Assume the photos for this catalog were taken in 2007. So that means Reagan was probably born in 1998. It was announced in 1994 that Ronald Reagan had Alzheimer’s Disease, & that would have put him in the news. He didn’t die until 2004, & I think the girl pictured is older than 4, so it wouldn’t have been his death that caused the newborn’s parents such extreme grief & nostalgia for the Gipper they named their baby daughter after him.
In the 1964 kindergarten Christmas pageant photo above, the children’s names are Steve, Cheryl, Patti, Nancy, Gary, Joann, Kevin, Karen, Randall, Kathy, Julia (my sister, third from the right in the front row), Colleen & Cathy. I don’t think anyone names their girls Cathy, Kathy, or Kathie (my nickname) anymore. If they name a girl Katherine (my name), the nickname is usually Kate or Katie, if they allow a nickname at all.
In 1998 the US was winding down one of the most prosperous periods in recent history. The budget was balanced, we had a $230 billion budget surplus (read that figure again; George W. Bush & the Republicans wiped this out after only 3 months in office) & gas was about 99 cents a gallon. Bill Clinton was halfway through his second term & the Evil Empire (you guessed it, the Republicans again) was hellbent on impeaching him for his affair with Monica.
(Try to get your brain around that: George W. Bush & Dick Cheney lied about Iraq having weapons of mass destruction & have gone unpunished [& rewarded: don't forget that George W. Bush's daddy has Zapata Oil Company, so all these skyrocketing gas prices put money literally right into George W. Bush's pocket, & Dick Cheney has Halliburton, a company that specializes in rebuilding oil-rich countries ravaged by war, so by destroying Iraq he's padding his own bank account; that's why it's called blood money], but Bill Clinton had an affair & lied about it, & he got impeached. So don’t make excuses to me about how you’re “not political” so you don’t vote. You should be ashamed & you know it.)
There were a lot of angry white men in the middle class (AMCWMs) in 1998, & they hated Bill Clinton because they were just flat-out jealous of him. (You think I’m kidding? Ask any of them to explain to you why they hate Bill Clinton so much & if you press them, you’ll get to the truth: Bill had a full head of hair in his mid-50s, heaps of charisma & sex appeal, friends from every strata of society, & young hotties running around after him, not to mention he was the leader of the free world [& doing a darn good job too], which sure don’t hurt in the Sexy Department. What did these AMCWMs have? Ouch.)
So maybe, just to fit in with the anti-Clinton crowd at the local pub, these AMCWMs convinced their wives to name their kid Reagan. That, & slapping a I’M THE NRA AND I VOTE sticker on their Chevy Tahoe probably made them feel right at home with all the other male-pattern-baldness anti-Affirmative-Action middle-age-creeps.
Moving on.
There’s Angelee with her baby Anika on page 10. Ooh! She could be Latina! Maybe she changed her name from Angel? Although that is rather a male name… But Anika? That sounds more Scandinavian to me. Darn. By the way Angelee got her picture in the VB catalog because she owns a Vera Bradley retail shop. Full disclosure.
Now maybe Vera runs into a problem getting white Anglo-Saxon Protestant women to pose for the catalog, because she starts repeating faces. On page 12 is Brenda again, the same Brenda that posed in her high-end-furnished kitchen on page 3 with her B-named offspring. I find it interesting to note that Brenda’s last name (or is it her husband’s) means “leather tanner” & is the name of a family that arrived in the New World as early as the 1700s. Perhaps an old-line Knickerbocker family? Probably used to having nice furniture I guess.
I skipped Cathy, Brenda’s friend, with whom she is photographed lunching. Cathy could be Latina too! So far, that’s 2.5 (not sure about Angelee) vaguely-ethnic-looking models out of 15.
On page 14 in a photo titled “Meeting Time,” we join Aimee (what there anything so wrong with just plain old-fashioned Amy?). She’s dressed for success circa 1983 & almost as white as her teeth.
Allison & John try to row a dinghy weighted down with wildly-printed VB beach towels trailing in the drink. Approximately-10-year-old Allison is said to be the granddaughter of Mary Ann, VB sales consultant, & John – aged about 7 & dangerously blond & fair-skinned to be out on the water on such a sunny day (hope his mommy has slathered him with SPF 45) – who is the great-grandson of Vera Bradley herself! Gosh, that young & it’s already about who you know that gets you anywhere in this world.
Sherry jots pithy notes in her journal as she sits on the pier on page 17. Her last name is the same as a famous prizefighter (although it’s spelled a bit differently), but I have a strong suspicion they’re not related.
Last but not least, we visit our Favorite Bee Family yet again. On page 18, we are reunited with Brenda & daughter Bailey (bee-bee), waiting on the tarmac to board their Cessna. My! Is summer in the fabulous Hamptons over already? Or is it just beginning? Time sure flies when you’re this rich! This picture irks me (surprise surprise) for another reason. Dear Bailey girl is wearing Navajo sandals, which I adore & covet (what? no Vera Bradley flipflops?).
The upshot of all this is that I can’t believe a popular women’s brand like Vera Bradley would have no African-American models. Sorry Vera, but your America is not what America really looks like.
More on this in my next post. Happy Midsummer’s Eve! I hope you are enjoying “high-spirited merrymaking & lighthearted bewitchment.”
I was flipping through the Vera Bradley catalog I got in the mail. I’m not really a Vera Bradley girl (partially because I’m not a pink girl [natch] & her things have so much pink in them), but last year I must have gotten on a mailing list (I suspect Hallmark) & I started receiving these catalogs.
I’ve bought my mom a few Vera Bradley items. One is a beautiful quilted jacket that I got brand-new, never-worn on eBay for some ridiculously low price like $20. One is done in a pattern called “Pinwheel Pink” & it’s a travel organizer for all one’s toiletries. I got it on amazon for $47 (which is pretty much the retail price).
I’ve never seen my mom wear the jacket, so I’m not sure how thrilled she is with it. But she said she loves the travel case. She often goes back & forth between her house & my sister’s house (about a 40-mile drive), so I think this accessory comes in handy for her.
The print is a special Vera Bradley pattern in that VB claims they donate 10% of the net proceeds from the sale of a Pinwheel Pink piece to The Vera Bradley Foundation for Breast Cancer & other breast cancer projects & services. My mom is a two-time breast cancer survivor (& a three-time cancer survivor), so it’s nice to know I’m giving to a good cause when I buy something. (Although I suspect not much money ever gets to cancer research; call me cynical, but my experience with corporate America has led be to think they pretty much keep every dime they can in their own pockets.)
So I get the Vera Bradley catalogs every couple of months. The latest catalog is entitled “Take Time” & I think it’s the spring 2008 catalog. It’s not large (it has about 26 pages). The stunning thing about this advertisement is that it could have been printed in 1958. Why? Because every model in the booklet is white. (Or canine.)
Thumbing through the pages, I was annoyed to notice that it looked like it was photographed in the Hamptons of Long Island, New York. (I differentiate because I live in Virginia, & we have a Hampton Roads area here that’s near Norfolk & Virginia Beach [that's where our state Democratic Convention is being held this weekend] & I don’t think this catalog was photographed there.)
You know, the snobby Hamptons, where Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City fame takes the jitney with her grrfrens for wild summer weekends of drinking, romance, drinking, general cattiness, drinking, & icky stuff like nausea, shocking breakups & scabies (usually acquiring while – you guessed it – drinking).
I know one of the reasons I have a bad opinion of the Hamptons is because I’m jealous. You have this gorgeous piece of land that abuts the beach with great Malibu-esque beach houses on it, & you make it so horrifically expensive to go there that you keep all the “undesirables” (like me) out. You know, just like they did with Malibu.
It makes me laugh (but not in a funny way) when I see people like Martha Stewart hobnobbing with Diddy just because each of them has enough money to buy land in the Hamptons & throw huge, expensive-champagne-soaked parties there during high season. Can you imagine them actually hanging out together if their common fortunes hadn’t thrown them into the same high-rent districts? Yep, when Sean John rolls up to his East Hampton crib, he’s far from the PJs in Harlem where he was born. & I doubt that when Martha & the Diddster are clinking Cristal that she realizes his father was gunned down when Diddy was 3 years old because he was an associate of druglord Frank Lucas, recently played by Denzel Washington in the movie American Gangster (a movie you should be sure & miss because it’s not good; any Denzel is good, but this movie wasted his talent).
(Speaking of Frank Lucas, don’t forget what Fat Joe said:
Haters get tight when you’re worth a million,
That’s why I wear this chinchilla, to hurt their feelings.
Joey Crack, if you’re reading this, I love you. Holla @ your girl.)
And you know that Diddy has no idea that Martha’s daddy was a Polish American who was a drug dealer in his own right, although he peddled his wares legally. Could it be that this, & not their obscene wealth, is the thread that draws Martha & Diddy together, that their respective fathers were in the same business?
But how ironic is it that Martha’s done time & Diddy has not? So does that mean that Martha has street cred but the Diddster’s just a wangsta?
Believe me, they’re not taking the smelly old jitney to the Hamptons. Their helicopter pilots are just scanning the world below for that big “H” so they can land the whirlybird & disgorge their passengers, most of whom have more money than everyone in my little suburb combined.
And now they can commiserate with poor Tiger Woods who just bought a property nearby for for a cool $65 million. At least I don’t have to see him pump his fist & bare his teeth like a 7-year-old anymore (or at least for awhile). Did you hear that huge collective sigh of relief coming from Phil Mickelson, Sergio Garcia, Rocco Mediate, Fred Couples (my favorite, pictured above at the President’s Cup), etc., when Tiger announced his forced retirement? My little breathy emission of elation was included in that roar, believe me. Now I can enjoy watching professional golf – live & on television – again!
More on this thread in my next post. Happy first day of summer!
I just got done watching the movie The Holiday with Jack Black, Kate Winslet, Jude Law & Cameron Diaz. This is the second time I saw it.
This time around, it made me really depressed. Are there people in real life that have experienced happy romantic lives like these characters? If so, note to Source: You missed me when You were bestowing lasting happiness through romantic relationships. I just go through day in & day out (okay, year in & year out) of quiet desperation in this department.
I must admit though, watching this movie again also made me hopeful that someday I might be able to experience some of the things that happened in the movie. Yeah, I know. One’s born every minute.
I like this movie. I know it’s supposed to be a Christmas movie, but you should rent it & tell me what you think. It got 2 stars on my cable network (which I just don’t understand). I give it 4 stars.
There’s a great scene in this movie with Jack Black & Kate Winslet in the video store.
How come it’s okay for male actors to be overweight but not female actors? I think Jack Black is attractive. & actors like Patrick Dempsey does nothing for me. Go figure. On the other hand, I think Jude Law is exceedingly cute, & he looks like he needs to eat something with gravy on it now or risk falling over in a dead faint.
It makes me laugh to think there are women who think Kate Winslet is fat. God forbid a woman should have a derriere. I must say I think Kate’s costar in The Holiday, Cameron Diaz, is annoying. I’m not talking about her weight – although she is bony – although the term skinny bitch does come to mind.
Speaking of Christmas movies: I read that the actor who played the young George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, Robert J. Anderson, died this week. “Don’t hit my bad ear, Mister Gower!” He was born the same year as my father, but outlived him by 25 years. My father reminded me more of Mister Gower (pre-come-to-Jesus) than he ever did of George Bailey, that’s for sure.
That movie. Hmm. I know everyone loves it (I do, too). But I can’t always watch it. This past Christmas I didn’t. I just couldn’t bring myself to listen to its feel-good, upbeat message of “Just think of how many people you made happy with your miserable little life.” As if that should really keep people rattling around this dark wilderness called existence even though we’re personally unhappy. How should I react to being neglected, ignored, exploited, passed over, dismissed, not taken seriously, taken advantage of, etc.? By just being thankful at least I made everyone else’s lives I touched happy? Jeez, if that’s not a reason to become a hermit, I don’t know what is.
I always laugh when I hear someone who’s recently separated say, “I just want him [or her] to be happy.” Yeah, right. How selfless. Just think how often your ex thought about your happiness when he was running around behind your back with a 26-year-old or working in the office 16 hours at a clip instead of home taking care of his family, or whatever it was that he did to cause your marriage to break up.
It seems mighty bleak to me to think that we should just trudge on through our sad, lonely lives because – you never know! - you might be able to make someone’s day by pulling them out of the way of a speeding cab or handing them back their wallet they dropped without realizing it. & then the poor helpful sap wanders home to her empty house & watches romantic comedy reruns on basic cable while eating Skinny Cow pretend-ice-cream cones to try to temporarily salve her heart (you know, the one that’s been broken so many times it has a stone of scar tissue inside it).
So dear George Bailey, thanks for all your help. But when someone saves the Building & Loan from Mister Potter, there will always be 20 Republicans like the Bush family, Dick Cheney, & John McCain to swoop down & turn it into something far more sinister & scandalous than a burlesque house.
But at least we’ll always have Jack Black in The Holiday, sitting at his piano with Kate Winslet singing, “Scroodeley doodle, dee scroodeley doo…” That should distract us from the hundreds of impeachable offenses George W. Bush & Dick Cheney have perpetrated on the selfless & helpful citizens of the United States.
Come to think of it, the phrase “I just want him to be happy” usually precedes some kind of rampage, so I guess I should take that with a grain of salt. Pass the Skinny Cow.
So much for my weekend by myself! My guys decided it was too hot to go canoeing with the Boy Scouts. They were going to Luray Virginia & the National Weather Service issued an extreme heat advisory for that area through the weekend.
Secretly, I’m relieved. I’m such a puss when it comes to my son. He’s 15 but I still worry so much when I know he’s going camping. I know these guys (“adults”) that go on the campouts are great guys & a few of them – I think – actually look out for my son like he’s their own kid. But you know, things happen. See? I’m a puss.
The Thursday before my son goes on a campout, I start feeling that fluttery (not in a good way) feeling in my stomach, a little bit like panic although not as melodramatic. I do some deep breathing & chant a basic mantra (in other words, pray like heck) until I calm myself down enough to get to sleep. Sheesh. I’ve been doing this motherhood thing for over 28 years & still I go through this stuff with myself.
So I went outside tonight at sunset & picked some strawberries from my garden.
They are so heavenly. Now I must tell you they’re not these little nuggets of pure honeyed sweetness. They’re so yummy & super-juicy & still warm from the sun when they hit my tongue (I don’t use any chemicals in my garden), but they’re not like dizzyingly, stunningly sweet.
But I gotta tell ya, there’s nothing like picking a strawberry from your own garden & popping it into your mouth (okay, I do a quick check for spider mites or bunny bites first).
I heard that the best strawberries you can grow are alpine strawberries. I want to try them someday. You can’t get these in the store because they don’t ship well (actually, they pretty much don’t ship them at all because they turn to mush about 4 minutes after being picked & put into a box).
So since I was going to have to be “on” as a wife & mother tonight instead of in calm, quiet, all-encompassingly-selfish bliss, I took a shower, dried my hair (which is like a wild animal & with a mind of its own & will be discussed in a later entry), watched an episode of Ballykissangel (which I think is sublime), then went out & picked strawberries. & it’s still flippin’ hot as Hades outside, even with the sun down.
More later this weekend!
This weekend my husband & son are going canoeing with the Boy Scouts. *insert Hallelujah Chorus here* I have been looking forward to a weekend without my fellas for months. I can’t believe how fast the time flies by when I’m puttering around my house when no one else is here but me.
The last time I had the house to myself was November 2006. How do I remember that right off the top of my head, you ask? Let’s just say the otherworldly-heavenly-ness of the weekend made an impression on me.
One Saturday afternoon a couple of years ago when my guys were camping, I worked in the garden. I live in a townhouse & have a postage-stamp-sized front- & backyard. I mow the lawn & do weeding, yes; but my real joy is gardening. Although my garden is small, I am a firm believer in vertical- & container gardening. I like to plant seeds in little peat pots in spring.
A few years, I can remember planting seeds indoors 6-8 weeks before the last frost (isn’t that how it’s always worded on the seed packet?). But I don’t have a lot of counter space indoors so it’s difficult to find somewhere to store the pots as the seeds are trying to germinate.
So now I pretty much wait until spring fever has struck me full-force (usually around the second week of April) & then I go outside & start some seeds. So far this year I have little seedlings of marigold (tagetes) French Vanilla & butterfly weed (asclepias). I’ve planted Shasta daisies (Alaska), dwarf sunflower, Love Lies Bleeding (amaranthus caudatus), & florist’s verbena (do you believe that the verbena seeds need complete darkness to germinate? Sounds like my sex life after 45).
I can remember mowing the lawn that weekend a few years go when I was on my own. I puttered in the garden, deadheaded some flowering perennials, planted some more seeds (cosmos, I think, & others), & generally avoided anything high-tech like a ringing telephone, cell or otherwise. Suddenly I realized the streetlights were coming on. I was incredulous! How could 5 hours have sped by like that?
Just knowing I don’t have anyone in the house I need to “look after” makes me so much more relaxed & “myself.” I’ve never lived alone, not in my whole life! That always stuns me when I think about it. I had 4 siblings, a mother, father, & grandmother that lived with me until the day I turned 18. That day I left to marry my first husband. We got married in Maryland, & there you have to wait three days to be married after you take your oath to get your marriage license (it’s 48 hours now). So I swore my oath at the courthouse in Upper Marlboro, Maryland on my 18th birthday. Three days later we were married at the same courthouse. I stayed with my best friend Nancy for the 3 days I had to wait to get married.
When my ex-husband & I separated, I had a 6-month-old daughter, so I didn’t live alone after my marriage ended either. It was right back into the lion’s den, otherwise known as my parents’ house where I grew up (with an exceedingly unhappy childhood).
So now, when I’m alone, it is blissful. I know that’s not what wives & mothers are supposed to say when their husbands & children go away temporarily. But knowing I don’t have to make sure there’s a hot meal on the table or someone’s favorite tee-shirt is laid out for the next day just gives me a certain serenity I don’t feel when I have a houseful.
It’s difficult for me to even go out to a restaurant & order what I want. Honestly! I look at the menu & it’s just second-nature for me to gravitate towards a dish that will leave me with leftovers that my son & husband would want to eat. So instead of ordering a personal pizza with mushrooms, roasted red peppers & basil, I’ll order one with bacon & ground beef. That way, I’ll be able to satisfy those wistful guys at home that sigh with envy when I tell them I ate at their favorite pizza place – without them.
When I eat at home when my guys are away, it’s sublime. I’ll have something I consider decadent for dinner, like scrambled eggs on toast with plenty of ketchup (no one around to saw “Eeew! Ger-OSS!”). Then I’ll make myself some camomile tea & take it upstairs to my bedroom to drink while watching a Poirot DVD or a rerun of Will & Grace (again, without having to hear a male voice groan, “GROSS!”).
I was laughing the other night when I heard David Beckham tell Jay Leno that he & Vickers (Victoria “Posh Spice” Beckham, his wife) eat baked beans on toast all the time & that it’s one of their favorite foods. Okay Becks, I can believe that maybe you indulge every so often, but Vicks? If she ever ate a whole plate of anything (at least during the last 10 years), I’ll eat my hat (admittedly not a hat filled with baked beans though if you don’t mind). But it just goes to show you that even celebrities need their comfort food every once in a while.
I will make sure I don’t schedule any social events for when my guys are going to be gone from the house overnight. I don’t want to go out with friends or have anyone over. I just want to be. I don’t want to have to be on or to have to impress anyone. I don’t want to have to make sure my legs are shaved & my eyebrows are plucked, or that I remembered to put on my deodorant or changed my shirt to something more presentable.
I once had a “friend” who had to be in control of all my free time. Oh Lord that was the most gawdawful relationship. This was a woman that I had broken up with twice (at the time). Have you ever broken up with a friend? This woman was the first person I’d ever broken off a friendship with, & that was when I was 30. What a laugh: I thought I’d put all my years as a doormat (with the footprints on my back to prove it) behind me. But I was wrong. I got back together with this terror twice more after our first breakup. I will tell you all about her as this blog goes on.
I broke up with her – let’s call her Jez – almost a year ago. I feel like it was another Independence Day! When Jez would find out that I was going to be alone for the weekend, she would literally descend on my house. I got to the point that I would turn off the living room lights (I have matchstick blinds on my bay window, so you can see in) & go either downstairs in the basement or upstairs to my room to get some peace & escape from Jez. I got better – with help from a professional – at “setting boundaries” (do you think I even knew what that meant before I got counseling?).
I’ll talk more about Crezzy Jez in a future blog post.
So this weekend I’ll be meditating on the bliss of peace & quiet. & I’ll be listening intently in the silence in case a higher power wants to give me a little friendly advice.