Tag: fashion

Columns

Watching the World Go By

Cindy Hval

News that Twigs Bistro & Martini Bar at River Park Square Mall will soon undergo a remodel brought memories of our most recent visit.

The atrium area at Twigs provides free entertainment with your meal. With a bird’s-eye view of the busy intersection of Main Avenue and Post Street, the opportunities to witness the foibles of humanity are boundless. It’s one of our favorite people-watching spots!

First, there’s the endlessly amusing rounds of parking roulette in front of Red Robin across the street from the mall.

Downtown street parking can be challenging, but more so if you don’t read the signs in front of those invitingly vacant spaces in front of the restaurant.

Those spots are reserved for to-go pickups and food delivery services like DoorDash or Uber Eats.

Here’s a hint – no meter means no parking, yet time after time we watch hapless drivers pull in, hop out and look for a meter.

Some brave souls shrug and go inside to dine, perhaps underestimating the parking fines they may incur. Most don’t gamble with the parking gods and move along.

During a recent meal, we watched a huge Humvee pull into the spot. The driver got out, scratched his head while reading the “No Parking” sign, and then returned to the car and drove off.

Moments later, it returned. This time, a few men stepped out to examine the sign, engaging in an animated discussion with a lot of arm waving. Then a gaggle of women and children emerged from the vehicle and marched into the restaurant. The driver and his cohorts clambered back into the rig to find an actual parking spot.

Problematic Parallel Parking also offers fun. It’s tricky. Multiple lanes of traffic and cars turning onto Main Avenue from Post Street increase the challenge. Sometimes we wager the next round on how many attempts it will take before a driver successfully parks.

We get pretty excited when someone does it on the first try and quietly applaud from our table above the fray.

(Full disclosure, I NEVER parallel park. I know my limits.)

Lime scooters have upped the people-watching ante. Novice riders wobbling down the sidewalk in front of the mall sometimes gently topple over, but I’m happy to report we’ve witnessed no major mishaps.

(Full disclosure, I will NEVER ride a Lime scooter, as per my limits mentioned above.)

The funniest thing is how my husband suddenly becomes a fashion expert as we watch people cross the bustling intersection.

“His pants are off. They’re around his ankles. How can he even walk? Aren’t we over that trend?” he’ll murmur.

Mostly, his observations confirm that it’s a good thing we didn’t have daughters. A trio of scantily clad girls provoked a gasp.

“They need to go home and put some actual clothes on!”

We watched a family of four emerge from Red Robin. The two little boys each carried a brightly colored balloon.

“Look!” I said. “They attach the balloons to sticks, now.”

At one time or another, every one of our four sons suffered the trauma of losing their grip on a balloon’s string and watching it waft skyward. Even when we tied the string to a chubby wrist, it would somehow slip off on the way to the car or the house, leading to heartbroken sobs.

I suppose that’s progress – no more tears over lost balloons.

Derek’s observations were more pragmatic.

“I betcha 10 to one, they’ll turn those sticks into swords and start jabbing each other before they get their car,” he said. “And then someone’s balloon will pop.”

I didn’t take that bet. After all, I raised four boys with him, and some things never change.

Columns

Savoring the Special + Wedding Tales

Cindy Hval

For The Spokesman-Review

As breakfasts go, on the day after Thanksgiving, it doesn’t get much better than homemade pumpkin pie with a large dollop of whipped cream.

Ditto on the day after, the day after.

“Well, that’s it until next year,” I said, as my fork slid into the last creamy bite of spiced pumpkin.

I scooped up bits of flaky pie crust and sighed.

So did Derek.

“Your pumpkin pie is so much better than store-bought,” he said. “How come you don’t make it more often?”

A valid question, since you can buy cans of Libby pumpkin year-round, and I’ve always got piecrust ingredients in the pantry.

“Pumpkin pie is only for Thanksgiving,” I replied. “Like sugar cookies, shortbread and fudge are only for Christmas.”

He sighed again and took our plates to the sink.

That conversation got me thinking. What if we had pumpkin pie every month? Or listened to Christmas music before Thanksgiving? Or enjoyed a batch of fudge in the summer?

An artificial Christmas tree could remain in your living room all year. My mom’s retirement facility does this with a small tree in their vestibule. They decorate it for the seasons – hearts in February, flowers in the spring, sunglasses in summer, etc.

But anticipating once-a-year treats and digging out holiday heirlooms to display are all part of savoring the joy of the season.

By the time you read this, there may be a few pieces of Irish cream or butter rum fudge left in our fridge, and there might be a cookie or two in the larder, but that’s it. On New Year’s Day, we invite the whole Hval clan over to devour all the Christmas treats, so we can start the New Year with a fridge filled with vegetables and other wholesome foods.

As I type, the refrain of “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” plays softly from my computer speakers.

”I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!”

Now, that’s a holiday sentiment I’d like to enjoy every day of the year.

Readers share wedding party memories

In my Dec. 5 column about my wedding appearances, I invited readers to share their wedding party memories.

My friend, Jill, is batting 50/50.

“I was a maid of honor and a bridesmaid,” she said. “One of the marriages stuck – one didn’t. Both weddings were lovely, though at the rehearsal for one of them, the officiant, who was also the groom’s dad, kept warning us bridesmaids to behave ourselves on the wedding day. I don’t know what he feared we would do. We were all married and had small children at that point. We were far too tired for any crazy stunts.”

Marcia Cocking appeared in a slew of weddings. Her many roles included flower girl, Junior bridesmaid, and maid of honor. She remembers every dress she wore!

“My yellow dress with a short cape (from her first flower girl role) has been a fun dress up for my 5 granddaughters,” she wrote.

Ditto a red dress and a white brocade gown.

“As a senior in high school, I wore a deep pink dress for my brother’s wedding. The dress also made an appearance at my Senior Prom with my future husband.”

In her sixth wedding appearance, she wore a flowered, lined dress as a bridesmaid in an August afternoon garden wedding.

“It was heavy and 100+degrees,” wrote Cocking. “It was nearly unbearable, in spite of the huge blue hat to complement the dress.”

That hat has also been a hit with her granddaughters.

Retired pastor, David Sutton, offered another perspective. He estimates he’s officiated 200 nuptials and has plenty of interesting tales.

“For example, the backyard wedding where the couple had 3 dogs and the grass was not mowed or cleaned up. Folding chairs on uneven turf, an old utility table for an altar, the participants wore clean bowling shirts with matching cut-offs. The dogs got loose in the middle of the ceremony!” he wrote. “Or the Hawaiian style outdoor wedding. The couple was about to light the Unity Candle just after I said, ‘And these single flames will light the one candle that represents the love you have for each other at this very moment and will last forever.’”’

And then a gust of wind extinguished the candle.

“I was best man at two weddings, co-star in three,” wrote Tom Peacock. “None lasted but I switched up to being a photographer at weddings that have had a much better success rate. Out of 6 weddings 5 are still going, the only one that isn’t, interestingly was a peacock-themed wedding, so perhaps my personal wedding experiences somehow affected that one. If I ever get married again maybe I should have you in the mix for a better success story.”

As I said, I’m sure my flower-strewing talents can be resurrected – the bouffant hairdo not so much.

Columns

A Member of the Wedding(s)

Cindy Hval

My column about my son’s wedding (Oct. 24) prompted a blast from the past.

Mary Gustafson wrote to remind me I was her flower girl at her January 1971 wedding. She even sent a photo of 6-year-old me rocking a bouffant hairdo!

Mom made my red satin dress with an empire waist and white ribbon sash. I wore short white gloves and carried a basket filled with rose petals.

Knowing her limitations, Mom took me to a beauty parlor for the bouffant, which she reinforced at home and at the church with copious amounts of White Rain hairspray. The scent gagged me, but it did its job, and my hairdo held.

1971 was a busy year for weddings for me. My brother, David, married his wife, Becky, in November.

It looks like Mom used the same pattern for my dress, but this time, I wore beige satin with short puffed sleeves and a brocade sash. Alas, no salon-induced bouffant. Instead, my short hair was softly curled, and I wore a headband matching the sash.

My basket brimmed with fall flowers, but the best part of the wedding for me was the handsome ring bearer, Becky’s youngest brother, Joe.

With huge chocolate-brown eyes and a killer smile, he was the cutest boy I’d ever seen! I felt lovely walking down the aisle with him.

After a brief hiatus, I resumed my duties at another winter wedding. In December 1973, my brother, Jon, wed his wife, Bonnie.

My dotted pink Swiss gown had an empire waist, but longer sleeves. I’m pretty sure Mom used the same pattern and just lengthened the sleeves.

By this time my mother had shorn my hair a la Florence Henderson in the Brady Bunch. In the photos, it looked like she trimmed my bangs herself. Mom was great at snipping fabric – hair not so much.

I had no flower-flinging duties because I’d been promoted to junior bridesmaid – which is just like a regular bridesmaid, but shorter.

My nuptial career hit a lull until my sister Shelley’s wedding in Leavenworth, in September 1984. This time I was the maid of honor.

Once again, Mom made my dress – a floor-length heather blue gown. Of course, it had an empire waist. I’m somewhat confident she didn’t use the same Butterick pattern she used for the previous three dresses. Then again, she’s pretty thrifty.

I didn’t let her touch my hair, but she brought an extra large can of pink-capped White Rain and sprayed it in my vicinity while we got ready for the wedding.

Two years later, I had a star turn as the bride, which was a lot more stressful than my previous appearances. Mom didn’t make my dress, but she did try to White Rain me.

The best part of this outing was all the presents. And the honeymoon. And Derek. Not necessarily in that order.

I did take one more trip down the aisle in 1987 when my friend Rhonda married her husband, Jay, in Moses Lake.

They had a June wedding and my Mom-made gown was a shimmering iridescent blue of some gauzy fabric that made her swear off sewing formal wear forever.

I’m proud to tell you that every one of these marriages endured. Not one divorce! My participation likely had nothing to do with it, but still, if you’re planning a wedding keep me in mind.

Flower girls are cute and all, but a flower woman could add an elegant touch. I’m not even opposed to bringing the bouffant back, but I won’t stock up on White Rain just yet.

Columns

Worn, but wearable

Cindy Hval

Every morning, I shrug myself into its welcoming contours. The once-fluffy pink nap has worn smooth. The cuffs, graying after repeated washings. I knot the belt, grab my coffee and shuffle downstairs to my desk and begin my day.

Recently, it dawned on me that my pink bathrobe is the oldest piece of clothing I own that I still wear.

Twenty-two years ago, I’d gone shopping for a new one. Heavily pregnant with our unplanned but oh, so welcomed fourth child, I decided to make sure I had a photo-worthy bathrobe for the post-birth photos.

No other color but pink would do, because I was positive that after having three sons, this last child would be a girl.

I mean, what are the odds that our unexpected blessing is a boy? I thought to myself.

I’d already jettisoned all our boy baby clothes when I’d thought our family complete. And since obviously math and understanding odds are not in my wheelhouse, I restocked our nursery with all things pink.

We all know how that turned out. Our Samantha turned out to be a Samuel. Back to the store went the pink, lacy things–except for the bathrobe.

I’m not a sentimental saver of things I can’t wear or don’t use. Sure, I have the fancy dress I wore at high school graduation and the sleek velvet dress I bought at the Goodwill when I finally lost all the weight I’d gained after having our grand finale – but those are the exceptions. I know I’ll never wear that lilac and white lace grad gown, but if I get consumption or another wasting disease, the velvet Christmas dress is still within my reach.

I wondered what clothing others held onto and still wore, so I posted the question on Facebook.

Miriam Robbins replied that she has a coat, bought at Value Village more than 25 years ago.

“It became my yard work coat to wear in the spring and fall when it’s too cold to go without one and not cold enough to wear my heavy winter coat,” she said.

Sue Lani Madsen has her father’s pea coat from his first tour of duty with the U.S. Coast Guard in the early 1950s.

“I wore the pea coat all during high school and imagined I was Ali McGraw in ‘Love Story,’ she said. “Still wear it occasionally–nothing better when it’s cold and wet.”

A black sweater still suits Jackie Wells.

“It’s probably at least 25 years old. It’s stretched out, but oh so comfy – the perfect thing to put on in a cold winter, movie, popcorn sort of night,” she said.

Scooter Mahoney found boots that last.

“I still wear my waffle stompers that I got in 1971. They’ve never needed any repair work done. LOVE them!” she said.

Last week I organized my mom’s closet for her. My brother and his wife had given her a new robe for Christmas. It’s gorgeous! Soft teal chenille, with a cozy faux fur collar. I didn’t know they made bathrobes with fur collars.

It’s probably time to retire my worn, but still serviceable robe. Yet I’m reluctant. I remember the day I bought it and the absolute optimism I felt at the impending birth of my long-awaited daughter.

I didn’t know that in a few weeks another blue bundle of boy would be placed in my arms, but 22 years later, I wouldn’t change a thing. Not even the robe.

What’s the oldest piece of clothing you own that you still wear?

Columns

Tattoo Talk Turns Troublesome

Cindy Hval

A delicious family dinner on the Delightful Deck turned into a conversational minefield recently when my husband asked what my plans were for the following day.

“Oh, the usual,” I replied. “I have an interview for a magazine story in the morning, and I’m getting a tattoo in the afternoon.”

As the kids say, mic drop.

Sam, 17, recovered first.

“No,” he said. “No, you most certainly are not.”

Kids can be so bossy.

I just smiled.

Derek took a deep breath, shrugged and said, “OK, but only if you get it on your … .”

Let’s just say my husband wanted me to get a tattoo where he could see it, but I couldn’t.

Sam was still concerned, but Derek wasn’t. That’s because he vividly remembers our first childbirth class, some 27 years ago.

Everything went well until they took us on a tour of the birthing rooms. Mind you, we’d already seen the graphic movies of natural, medicated and cesarean births, and I was unfazed, but during the tour the nurse showed us the needle they use to administer epidurals.

I took one look and Derek said my face turned whiter than the stack of cloth diapers on the table near the bassinet.

Woozily, I backed out of the room and leaned against a wall. One of the soon-to-be dads had a similar reaction and slumped next to me.

“OK,” I said to Derek. “Natural childbirth it is. There is no way I’m letting that needle anywhere near me.”

“Me too,” said the guy next to me. “Natural childbirth all the way.”

I’m not sure his wife agreed with him.

All this to say, Derek wasn’t convinced my tattoo plan would come to pass because he was quite certain that I’d pass out at the sight of the needle.

He also knows how changeable I am. On any given day I change my mind about what to wear at least a half dozen times.

Permanent body art might be a stretch for a person whose accessories litter her dresser like flotsam the tide washed in, because she can’t decide between gold or silver earrings and then needs a bracelet to match.

The jumble of shoes on my closet floor is not a testament to a hoarding problem, but the result of my inability to stick with the shoes I’d carefully laid out the night before to go with the outfit that I no longer feel like wearing.

Ethan, our oldest son had a more pressing question – what would I get a tattoo of?

“I think tattoos should mark something meaningful,” he said. “A milestone, a memory – something important.”

I agree. The birth of each of my children was certainly meaningful, but those events have already documented on my skin in the form of stretch marks.

In fact, if I wanted important permanent reminders etched on my flesh, having my name and birthdate tattooed somewhere would be more useful. Or maybe the words “If found return to … .” As long as the info was inked where my husband has suggested.

At the end of the meal I admitted to my family that I was actually going to get a henna tattoo. I’ve always wanted one and my teenage niece, Lizzie, recently started doing them.

The next day I showed off the results; a beautiful mandala with a trailing leaf pattern, exquisitely etched on the inside of my arm.

My guys agreed Lizzie’s talents are exceptional, and they all thought the design was perfect. Best of all henna isn’t permanent, so I can get something different next time.

And there will be a next time, because when I posted a photo of my tattoo on Facebook, a friend commented, “A bold design choice. Known as two fighting cats – shows them swirling in anger and rage as their tails are poofed out and the spittle flies. Not everyone chooses this design so you are the brave.”

I’m pretty sure he was teasing, but his comment reminded me that the milestone additions of two cats to our family still hasn’t been marked in a meaningful way.

Yet.

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Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” You can listen to her podcast “Life, Love and Raising Sons” at SpokaneTalksOnline.com. Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval

Columns

Foundational Support Proves Painful (or These Undies Are a Pain in the Ribs)

Cindy Hval

The pain in my rib cage jabbed with startling ferocity. I squirmed in my seat in the crowded auditorium, trying to get comfortable.

I was learning a painfully expensive lesson about the high cost of vanity.

You see, there comes a time in every woman’s life when she feels the need for more support – and by support I mean foundational garments. (Male readers feel free to stop here.)

This perceived need for figurative assistance spans the generations. My great grandmother wore a corset. My grandmother wore a girdle. My mother wore a panty girdle. Today’s generation has “shapewear” most commonly found in the brand name Spanx.

Somehow, I’d reached my late 40s without becoming familiar with the misleadingly silky garments that provide an iron-fisted hold on unsightly bumps and bulges.

But recently I bought a new dress – a fitted sheath that looked fabulous – as long as I’m holding my breath.

Have you ever tried to hold your breath for an entire evening whilst simultaneously engaging in lively conversation? At the first wearing of my new dress I was reduced to breathy Marilyn Monroe-ish whispers, and had a stunning headache at the end of the night due to lack of oxygen.

When I confessed my dilemma to a group of friends they expressed shock that I hadn’t yet acquainted myself with Spanx. “Even 20-year-olds should wear Spanx,” asserted one fashion savvy friend.

So, off to the store I went. Combing through the shapewear racks left me reeling with sticker shock. It costs a lot of money to instantly slim and tone. After much dithering I came home with three items guaranteed to give me the sleek silhouette I desired. I could tell these were the real deal, serious grown up undergarments, because my color choice was limited to black or beige. No flirty fuchsia or pretty pink. I purchased a camisole, a pair of panties and something called a high-waisted girl short. I believe in covering all my bases.

This weekend I decided to give my dress another outing. I laid my shapewear purchases on my bed, trying to decide which item would provide the support I needed while still making breathing possible.

In the end I decided to go all out – the high-waisted girl short topped by the camisole. It turns out deciding what to wear was the easy part. Getting dressed? Not so much.

I started with the girl short. The garment slid on with ease until it reached my knees. From there on up it was an epic struggle. For once I was thankful I no longer have time for manicures. If I’d had one it would have been ruined.

Feeling confident the worst was over, I reached for the camisole. I won’t elaborate on the battle. Let’s just say at one point, I had both arms pinned over my head and the danger of suffocation via spandex was very real.

When at last the camisole reached the top of my thighs, I collapsed on the bed. The fact that I’d gotten an aerobic workout and a strength training workout without leaving my house comforted me.

After I recovered, I finished dressing and surveyed the result in the mirror. Not bad. My fitted dress fell smoothly to my knees with no unsightly lumps, and no breath holding needed.

However, once I got into my car I realized I hadn’t tried sitting in Spanx. That edge of that high-waisted girl short began digging into my ribs. Its rubberized edging meant it wouldn’t roll or slide down through the evening, but it also meant I couldn’t adjust the parts that pinched.

I could stand and walk and talk with ease, but sitting proved miserable, and I was in for a night of sitting.

As the evening progressed, so did the pain in my ribs. I tried to adjust the girl short through my dress, but I couldn’t budge it. The snug camisole prevented me from getting a grip on the edge of the offending garment. My “more must mean better” philosophy proved painfully inaccurate when applied to shapewear.

Finally, the discomfort outstripped my vanity. I slid out of my seat and made my way to the restroom where I peeled off the girl short and tucked it into my purse.

I felt like a new woman when I returned to my seat. Shapewear may be all the rage, but I think I’ll stick with the shape the good Lord gave me. Lumps, bumps and all.

This column originally appeared in the Spokesman Review. Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval