CheapJAP

Mommy's Closet

You’re Never too Old to Find the Afikomen

I’m not overly religious, but I luuurve Jewish holidays, in part because they’re an excuse to see the thirty or so members of my family. (The extent to which we’re more culturally Jewish was affirmed at last night’s seder, when we arrived at the dip-the-parsley-in-salt-water-to-represent-the-tears-of-the-slaves part and realized we had no salt water. “Dip it in the wine!” yelled my Uncle Eric. We collectively deemed this an excellent solution, and continued seder-ing without incident.)
But JAPs - even those of us who genuinely adore our parents, grandparents, brother, nine aunts and uncles and twenty cousins - don’t go home for Passover just to hang out with our families. We go home to hunt for the Afikomens of Mommy’s Closet. My finds this trip (taken with Mommy’s consent, of course): A gauzy, orange, white and blue checked Burberry spring scarf; A pair of hot white Theory pants (purchased via Woodbury Commons, natch); A green, Gucci clutch with a detachable strap that doubles as a fab, skinny belt. A grand total of four JAPtastic pieces, just for going home for Passover. If that’s not worth giving up bagels for, I don’t know what is.
Chag Sameach to all my fellow JAPs

Mommy's Closet

Your Mom…(and her closet)

Stealing from stores might be illegal, but stealing from Mommy’s wardrobe is essential for the fiscally responsible fashionista. Choose your stolen goods wisely - new purchases and anything she wears regularly are strictly off limits (for my Mom, this usually means workout gear, so no biggie). Always ask before you take, not because you need permission, but because asking your Mom to “borrow” her material wares is an indirect way of saying you admire her style. This will make her feel young, and possibly result in an impromptu bonding experience (read: shopping trip) on her (read: Daddy’s) dime.

That my mother and I are not the same shoe size is perhaps God’s biggest joke on me. Mere inches stand between me and racks and racks of thousands of dollars worth of stilettos, a third of which she’s never worn and never will. Last year, I found myself in her closet surveying the dire situation. I’d just finished my ritual of trying on 4 or 5 pairs of her least worn/most coveted heels to no avail. My feet had not grown, hers had not shrunk, things were
looking grim.

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