‘Rashomon’ in the Junior Department

Catherine: The invitation arrives, a summons to a mother-daughter tea. I like these events. I make a mental note to ask my daughter Erin if she has any suitable clothes and post the invitation on the family bulletin board.

Erin: Uh-oh. Tea. Time to argue over “appropriate” outfits again. Maybe if I don’t say anything we won’t have time to shop. I have plenty of clothes. I’ll ignore the invitation.

When I next look at the invitation, I realize the tea is tomorrow. I’ll pick Erin up from dance this afternoon and we’ll go to the mall. She is so lucky, this 15-year-old girl of mine. I never request that she look “wholesome,” as my mother did. All I want is that she look “nice,” especially when we are going to a special event. We have fun shopping together.

I plop down in the car, sweating, finally resting my legs after six hours at the dance studio, and Mom asks, in a way-too-cheery voice, if I want to go shopping? The tea! No! No! No!

“I’m a little tired,” I say.

She says I need new clothes.

“I have no money,” I say, pleased with myself for coming up with a responsible excuse.

“I’ll buy,” she says.

“Fine,” I say because I know I am done for.

It seems fair to pay for these “protocol” clothes rather than expecting her allowance to cover them.

“All you have to do,” I say, “is find something to wear tomorrow, and then we can do some fun shopping.”

I’m scared. “Fun shopping” is shopping with friends and flirting with cute guys. “Fun shopping” is trying on mini-skirts, no matter how short. “Fun shopping” is stopping in at my favorite stores.

I pass my reflection in the plate-glass window of Silhouette. Who is that old hag, I wonder. I’m not sure if I look tired because I really am, or if I’m stale in black Old Navy capris compared with the leopard print pants, marabou sweaters and slinky dresses in the window. What does she think she will find in here? Oh, that rack has some cute skirts on it.

Silhouette revives me until Mom holds up a ‘60s-looking skirt and tells me how cute I will look in it. I gag inside but politely tell Mom it’s the ugliest skirt I’ve ever seen. She shrugs and keeps it while trying to find a shirt to go with this costume. I roll my eyes and start eyeing cute Hawaiian sundresses. I ask if these meet her approval and she says no and gives me that look. Great, I think. Here we go. I will pick something, she will say no, she will pick something, I will say no and so on and so forth until I end up buying something I wear once. We leave Silhouette after I try on her skirt and insist I don’t like it.

Here we go. Why are these shopping excursions such a chore? She has such an easy figure to dress, my budget is reasonable, this should be fast. Why can’t she acknowledge her feminine, dancer side and pick something pretty that doesn’t look all hoochie-mama? Not that there’s much to pick from. Who designs these clothes? Am I the only mother who is aghast to see my child near naked? When did these micro-minis and tube tops come back in? Oh, this isn’t happening. Time warp and I am 15 again shopping with my mother. She forbids me to wear tube tops. I am naughty. I buy them when she isn’t around, leave the house with a touch of spandex showing beneath a demure blouse. Once out the door, off comes the blouse and my shoulders are free. Did I look that smutty? Oh, Mother. Maybe you were right.

To Wet Seal we go. I start looking at the mini-skirts, telling Mom that everyone wears them. Not to a mother-daughter tea, she replies. I count to 10 before walking to the rack where she stands. Her hand lies upon a dress that looks like it could be from the Von Trapp family. I make a face and am told that it is not a nice face. I think it is pretty nice considering the circumstances.

I start to sound like the mothers I hate. Sarcastic. Czarish. I almost tell her if she’s so good at picking clothes, why hasn’t she found anything yet. I want to call her ungrateful for not whooping at this opportunity to get new clothes. I almost tell her to just stand still, I’ll pick her outfit, she’ll wear it no matter what and that’s that! It’s was so easy when she was a baby, she always looked nice. We trudge on. I bite my lip and draw blood. It’s time for a cup of tea. She gets a watermelon ice.

There’s really nothing to say to her right now, so it’s a good thing I’m eating. I bet she wishes she could still dress me. She shows me those baby pictures. Polka dots. Ruffles. Hair sticking up in one big curl. Yikes! She’s not getting me into any more of those goofy clothes even if she is paying.

Maybe a department store will have better choices. Here’s the junior department. No music is blasting. Few people. Obviously not a hip place. I’ll probably love the clothes. She’ll hate them. Hmmm. Look at this rack of dresses over here.

Hello? This looks like a fashion nightmare. I’ll run through the racks just to act like I’m trying. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Wait.

There is something. I have just found my possible ticket to “fun shopping.” I show Mom my dress, and for once we both smile. She is concerned with the spaghetti straps, but I assure her they will be fine. I’ll wear a strapless bra. I find a dressing room and overhear another shopping team.

“Ewww Mom, this is disgusting,” the girl says.

“No, it’s not. It’s cute. I see these in all the magazines.”

I laugh, wondering how many teen magazines the mom has read, and I’m happy I have found a possible dress. I pray the dress fits. I try it on and am in love! I twirl around and walk out of the dressing room.

Oh. I catch my breath. She is a butterfly. Delicate in a pastel sheath of flowers. She twirls like a little girl. There is something about the cut of the dress that makes it hug her figure. It is too flattering, and she senses its allure. Gad, feminine wiles. I wish her taste ran to navy blazers and long skirts with knife pleats. I act like I don’t love her in this dress, and instead ask, “What do you think?”

If I tell her I love it, will she hate it? There’s nothing to hate. It’s long, to my knees. It’s not butt-tight. It’s not too expensive. It’s OK. Is this all right? She tells me to go find shoes while she pays. I spin once more in the dressing room, thank her and head out.

Back to Silhouette. What does she like about that store? What is she thinking with these chunky shoes? Have they no delicate sandals?

I’m going to scream. What does Mom know? She says these shoes “don’t go.” Sorry to burst your bubble, Mom, but you grew up in the ‘70s. This is the new century. I ask her which ones “go,” and she shows me and I say absolutely not! We end up compromising, but she tells the lady to bring out the ugly ones anyway. I tell her I’m not going to like them any better on and she says just try and see. One more time I breathe and count to 10. And then she wonders why shopping together takes so long. Because I’m always trying on stuff I hate, I want to tell her, but that’s not a very nice thing to say.

Do I care too much? Does it really matter what she wears? Does she ever tell me what to wear or follow me into dressing rooms and turn up her nose at my choices? I can’t help myself. I see the shoes she has chosen do look better with the dress. I tell her to pick whichever ones she likes best. I’m going for a walk. Hmmm. Look at this blue leopard skirt. She’ll probably think this is ugly. It’s short, but not as short as some. I mean, not for the tea, but for parties or dances this would be cute. Do . . . I . . . dare . . . pick . . . it . . . up?

Amazing! I got out of the mall alive. I even came back with some cute stuff, including the blue mini skirt I was eyeing. I thank Mom and tell her I love her. She tells me she loves me too, but next time I should go shopping with my friends. I laugh and silently thank her for not making me say it.

Catherine Keefe is a writer in Trabuco Canyon. Erin Keefe is a sophomore at Santa Margarita Catholic High School.