Mommy Cash

"Boy, you're just screaming 'springtime' today," said my husband to me this a.m. as I was leaving the house wearing a black blazer, black shirt, black skirt, black tights, black jacket and black heels while carrying a black purse.

Well at least I'm not in boots nor am I wearing a wool coat!

And, for whatever it's worth, my lipstick is light pink.

Over the past few years I have come to terms with the fact that I have morphed into my mother--who we used to call "Mommy Cash" when we were younger for her myriad black-on-black ensembles. I have somehow become the same woman who would frown upon purchasing, for example, an orange sweater as it would be very impractical.

My mom refused to buy the blue plaid polyester uniform for me when I was in grade school because it was tacky; however, she never seemed to mind that I was the only kid still wearing the "old school" (pun intended?) gray plaid wool uniform a) well into spring and b) when I had grown so much that it had become a micro-mini. (I actually had to wear shorts underneath to avoid showing my skivvies.)

From a fashion perspective, it shouldn't take too much for me to transition into becoming a nun during retirement. This black has become a habit . . .

Oh, I slay myself.