Tag: Fashion

Reasons Why Not

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 8 Comments

Thumbing through an old Sherlock Holmes tale last night, I came across a rather antique word. I think this one’s at least vaguely known to most people but rarely used anymore.
Dr Watson reproves Sherlock for his sarcastic reply to Watson’s comment, but Holmes is absorbed by his own thoughts and pays no attention to Watson’s REMONSTRANCE.

Remonstrance, or Remonstration — the noun — according to M-W, is a plea in protest, objection, or disapproval. In other words, Reasons Why Not.
Remonstrate — the verb from which it comes — Lexico defines as: to say or plead in protest, objection, or disapproval. to present reasons in complaint; plead in protest.

Today’s Ragtag Daily Prompt word, TATTOO, gives me a good chance to use this almost abandoned word. In my opinion, here are some reasons why not.

When I think of tattoos, another word comes to mind: FORESIGHT – or the lack of it. Hindsight may be 20/20 but our ability to look into the future and see how we will feel, or what our life will be like, twenty or thirty years hence is extremely limited. Tattoos are a permanent body decoration, often done on the spur of the moment, often done while intoxicated or high. No room for FORESIGHT there.

This is one of my main remonstrances when it comes to tattoos – or any other permanent disfigurement. Does anyone really want to look at the same wallpaper design 24/7 for 60-70 years? Will a super-hero on a teen’s arm still be cool when he’s 55, chairman of some corporation, the father of teenagers, or a seventy-year-old grandparent? Or will it someday be an embarrassment he needs to cover up?

It’s a fad, and fads pass – or circle. In the 50s tattoos were popular; my cousin has his own name discreetly tattooed on his forearm. By the time I was a teen they were passé; none of the kids in my class got inked up. Now tats are all the rage for a time. What if the next generation says, “Yuck, Grandma! That looks awful.”

If adults get tattoos, I think at least they’ve seen some of life and are making their own choices, but teens come under such pressure from their peers. When I see young people sporting multiple tattoos I feel sorry for them because I think someday they’ll mature and move on. Then they’ll realize what they’ve done to their body is permanent. I’ve heard of people who later regret their tats and spend big bucks to have them removed. We have a friend who’s trying bit by bit to remove his many tats with a laser — and the process is quite painful.

My last remonstrance: relationship changes are unforeseeable. Some years back another blogger wrote about how her boyfriend, madly in love with her at the time, insisted they get each other’s names tattooed on their arm. He went whole hog and had her name blazed across his biceps. She was more cautious and had his name tattooed in smaller letters on her arm. Good thing, too, because they broke up and her new spouse, a few years later, didn’t appreciate seeing the old boyfriend’s name on her arm every day.

Grad night

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 9 Comments

Here’s my response to the Ragtag Daily Prompt word: FLOUNCE

Emily checked the clock again, wondering if her date would be early or just on time. “Please don’t be late,” she thought. “Let’s get on with the show.” She’d looked forward to graduation all through high school; now the day had come and she was jittery as well as eager.

She straightened the many frills on her new dress and wondered what he’d think of it. Would he be embarrassed? As her Dad politely commented half an hour ago, it was a little over the top. Mom had decided to try a new dressmaker and Emily described the type of dress she wanted. On impulse she’d added, “I’d like something with a touch more flounce.”

Yes, she’d definitely said “a touch.” Somehow the concept hadn’t been communicated well. The gown Emily envisioned hadn’t at all corresponded to the dressmaker’s image of “a touch more flounce.” She hoped she’d be able to move around in all these ruffles — and not roast once the action get started. Worse, she was horrified they might make her look fat!

Image by Natalja Danilchenko — Pixabay

To Be- or not to Be-

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 7 Comments

Today let’s take a look at the letter

Rye Regular
This letter brings forth a bounty of delightful words, some very plain like BETTER and BEST, some more intense, like BANDITTI, those dreadful BUSHWHACKERS. And then there are the be- words like BEHEST, BEGET, BEGONE, BENIGHTED, BERATE, BETRAY, BETOSS, BETRAMPLE, BEWARE. You can probably think of many more.

And BI- words…And BY-words.

Rye Regular
Image by Capri23 Auto — Pixabay

Did you know that the word BRUSQUE is derived from the name of an unpleasant spine-covered shrub called “the butcher’s broom”? The Latin name, bruscum became the Italian brusco and the meaning morphed into sharp , tart, or sour. The French adopted it as BRUSQUE, and understood it to mean fierce or lively. We Anglophones kept the French version, but added an adaptation of our own for good measure: the word BRISK.

And now a lively little verse that I penned on Saturday, when FLAMFOO was the prompt at Word of the Day..

Rye Regular

I’ve never been a flamfoo,
just do enough to pass;
a shower and a shampoo,
bedecked in simple class.

Never tried to look bepranked
in duds that gleam or flash,
nor as a fashion-plate be ranked
I’d rather bank my cash.

“Wash and wear” is my one speed
and minimum my taste;
bedizenments I don’t need,
those primps and perms a waste.

You may lament my brusquerie,
berate my spartan leaning,
but I’ll bypass the frippery,
let others do the preening.

My New Hat

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 5 Comments

I’ll always remember that pink hat. It was a real beauty, so big and floppy it made you think of a sombrero with flowers.

It was made up of threads, rings of variegated colour, with small white daisies decorating the front. At the back the brim was festooned with purple mums, each with a bright orange eye. As an added touch of pizzazz, a gold braid wound its way artfully around the brim, the ends hanging down in tassels.

My hat adventure started the week after the Sunday School picnic. I’d spent a couple of hours in the sunshine supervising the kindergarten class and came home from the event red-nosed, cheeks on fire.

On Sunday morning sympathetic friends suggested, “You should get yourself a sun hat, Andella.”

I’d always been too vain for a hat, I guess, but as I looked in the mirror now, I gave in gracefully. Yes, a hat may look old-fashioned — it may even make me look like a grandma — but in the long run it would save me some serious suffering. “Saved from the bakin’,” I murmured, then chuckled to myself.

As soon as I was presentable again I headed to the accessories counter at a local upscale department store, determined to fight back against those nasty UV rays that fry you and also wrinkle you in old age. I perused their selection of sports caps, straw hats and floppies. This would be my last sunburn.

Among the various toppers on display I saw this amazing creation. A delight to the eye, a real work of art. Love at first sight! I paled at the intimidating price tag, but affection always has a price, right? From now on I wouldn’t stint on such an important issue as my health and beauty.

So I swiped the old debit card and wore the thing home, feeling delighted knowing eyes were turning my way as I walked down the street. Had here been an Easter Parade I may well have won the “most colorful hat” contest.

The very next week I had the perfect chance to test my gorgeous creation. My sister had invited us to join them for a supper barbeque by the lake and the sun was shining brilliantly that afternoon. So I wore my pink hat, expecting to turn my sister an envious shade of green.

I took it from the shelf and gave it a little shake, enjoying the rustle of the silk flowers. “They look so real,” I told my husband as I admired the color combination. On impulse I gave it a spritz of my favorite cologne, Lilac Legacy.

“Most certainly they do, sweetheart,” he said. “I hope there’ll be no deer around. They may try to sample you.”

“Deer don’t eat lilacs so I’ll be alright,” I assured him. He carried out the picnic basket, I set my hat carefully in the back seat of the car, and we were off for a delightful day at the park.

Sporting my jaunty topper and my fuschia sun-dress, I marched over to the picnic area. But we’d barely joined my sister’s family when I heard this buzzing sound. Next thing my husband and sister were both shouting, “Look out, Andella! Don’t move.”

It’s very hard to restrain from swatting at bees when half a dozen are buzzing in your face. In fact I couldn’t resist slapping at one that landed on my collar and leapt from there to my hairline. Talk about a pain in the neck. A few well placed bee sings will get you there in no time.

Not thinking clearly, I stumbled toward the lake. Or maybe because the stings felt so much like fire my subconscious called for water. Then someone yelled something about some mud on the stings, so I waded knee-deep into the lapping waves and reached down to scoop up a handful.

Our ever-capricious forces of nature have deposited some oblong, slippery rocks in the water right about there. Of course my foot had to land on the edge of one. I groped for balance, took a misstep, and fell straight forward. And my beautiful pink hat with its cargo of mums and daisies, went floating away, pursued by a dozen frustrated bees.

Thankfully my husband was right there to assist me. But what consolation did my loving, compassionate sister say as I straggled out of the lake?

“Hey, Sis. You made quite the tsunami.” Adding insult to injury.

(Original image of pink hat: Ben Kerckz — Pixabay)

Ragtag Daily Prompt : DELIGHT