Lancaster - Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, Or, the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase

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Table of Contents

OTHER TITLES BY New York Times BESTSELLING AUTHOR JEN LANCASTER

Bitter Is the New Black

Bright Lights, Big Ass

Such a Pretty Fat

For the readers, booksellers, and librariansyou make it all possible!

AUTHORS NOTE

Some characters have been combined for storytelling purposes. In addition, other names and identifying characteristics have been changed for privacy reasons.

The soul of this man is in his clothes.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.

MARK TWAIN

It has always been the prerogative of children and half-wits
to point out that the emperor has no clothes.
But the half-wit remains a half-wit, and
the emperor remains an emperor.

NEIL GAIMAN

Prologue

When I was a kid, my mothers mantra was You are what you eat.

Considering that I broke the long silence from birth until my thirteenth month of life by uttering the word cookie, it was safe to say even then that it would not become mine. I knew I wasnt a bruised banana pulled from her handbag while waiting on line at the post office, nor was I an unsweetened bowl of Cheerios topped with wheat germ from the foul-smelling hippie health food store. Sure, Id have happily been a Hershey bar or a bowl of mouth-shredding Crunch Berries, but a poorly boned bowl of homemade chicken soup or a salt-free lentil casserole? No.

Right about the time I was able to cut my own meat and make my own sartorial choices, my Auntie Fanny gave me some of my cousin Stephanies old clothes. I was instantly enamored; there were colors and styles Id never seen before.

Instead of the ducky-and-moo-cow tops my mother bought or made by hand, I took first grade by storm in Stephs old purple suede fringe vests and rainbow-striped corduroy bell-bottoms and peace symbol T-shirts. I mean, why would I dress like a baby when I could look like an extra from Sonny and Cher Show reruns?

I may not have been able to tie my shoes or spell my last name, but I knew one thing for sureI was not what I ate.

I was what I wore.

You never can tell when nostalgia might strike. For many people, its triggered by a long-forgotten scent, say, the nose on a glass of wine that evokes the aroma of ripe grapes hanging from the arbor in their great-grandmothers backyard. For others, memories come flooding in when a fancy small-plates restaurant conjures up an ironic bread pudding that happens to taste just like the one Mrs. Maguire brought to that block party the day Nixon resigned. For some, its a snippet of a song: Three bars from Totos Africa broadcast from a passing car and theyre no longer swinging a Halliburton briefcase down Michigan Avenue to get to a branding meeting. Instead, theyre huddled in their high school commons at lunch, cramming for a fifth-period chemistry test.

And me? Well, more often than not a piece of clothing will spark my memory.

I clearly remember what I had on when I learned the Challengerexploded, I saw my husband, Fletch, for the first time when I was waitressing in a pink polo and low-waisted mens green chinos, and a year later when we had our first kiss, I was in a red Ralph Lauren turtleneck, loose sand-colored 501s, and had a red and blue grosgrain band around my watch. I can even tell you the exact gauge of the sweater set I wore the day I made the mistake of carrying a Prada bag to the unemployment office... no matter how much Id like to forget.

The sizes on the tags of my clothing may have changed over the years, but the memories are a constant.

In Pretty in Plaid, I recall the outfits (and events) that ultimately made me the kind of condescending, egomaniacal, self-centered smart-ass who would bark orders at waitresses and make assistants cry. My road to hell wasnt paved with good intentionsit was cobbled with gold lavalieres and Gucci purses.

As I examine my life through this book, I cant help but wonder if my mother was right. Maybe I really was what I ate. And maybe if shed let me eat a little more sugar, Id have come out sweeter.

My parents (and a prom queen or two) might disagree with my recollections and may have entirely different opinions on where and why things got off track.

So maybe it wasnt the sugar. Maybe Im just naturally an ass.

But, really, who knows? All I can say for sure is that my story begins with kneesocks and a lobster bib....

Part One

The Seventies

Sock Lobster

(Navy Knee-Highs)

I dont need to see a menu; just bring me the lobster, please. I smile beatifically as I return the large plastic multipaged menu to the waitress. I gesture over to the tank by the front door. Get me the one with the green rubber bands around his claws. He seems like a bully and I dont care for bullies.

Before writing anything on her little spiral pad, the be-smocked waitress gives her golden beehive a quick scratch with the cap of her pen as she seeks my mothers approval. Is she sure?

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