Last night the husband and I were watching NCIS.  Yes, we're that lame.  Aside from Mark Harmon aging well and still being totally hot, one of the reasons I enjoy the show is the character of Abby Sciuto played by Pauley Perrette.

 I don't know Pauley Perrette personally, and honestly I don't really know much about her beyond her IMDB profile information.  What I know and like about her is her ownership of her style, her persona, and her look.  I like the fact that I was stunned to learn that she's 40 years old and owns the look of a goth girl in her twenties like she holds the patent. Fuck she's cool.

 But she's not as cool as Debbie Mazar.  I don't know Debbie either, other than a cursory familiarity with her frequent appearances on television and in films over the last 30 years.  She has, with rare deviance from plan, always been sporting the vintage Jersey girl look.  She makes the wardrobe crew on Mad Men look like amateurs in dressing women in vintage clothing.  She wears a poodle skirt like she invented pumps and pearls. At 46 she rocks the style of American Graffiti and Happy Days like it just came off the pages of Vogue.

 Why do I suddenly on a fine fall Wednesday find the need to talk about these fabulous middle aged fashionistas?  Well frankly, it is because I, after having taken a survey of my closet, realized that I have no look to rock.  I have looks that I favour - like most of my pants don't reach any further than my cankles.  It's not that I dare to dream that this makes me hip,  but rather that I have convinced myself that I look taller than my already statuesque 5' 5 1/2" with short pants on.  Don't balk, you have your own tricks of the trade.

I'm not saying that I'm not now nor have I ever been fashionable. I have, in the past, rocked a look or two.  As evidence I offer you my senior class photo circa 1984.  I was totally working the A Flock of Seagulls hairstyle and I think I did a fair job of tying it it in with the flannel and pearls. This was Mikimoto vs.  Pendelton with a splash of Salvation Army thrown in and I could and did totally sport it.  Today, if I tried this, I would most likely be directed to the nearest homeless shelter for counseling.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

When I was growing up all I really ever wanted was to be Gidget.  Be she Sandra Dee, Deborah Walley, Cindy Carol or Sally Fields, Gidget was the unwitting fashionista that I wanted to be.  She was capable of balancing her tomboyish walk and ability to surf with the Big Kahuna with a pleated skirt and sweater twinset. I remember my outfit for the first day of my junior year of high school. I was attending a new school and decided to pursue my quest for a vintage look, so I wore a hot pink crinoline, a denim jacket and shiny turquoise leather shoes.  I even had a duck's ass in my hair. It was as close to Gidet as a girl from 1982 could get.

Today I resign myself to putting on a poodle skirt for Halloween and owning a closet full of Capri pants and the odd beaded Angora wool sweater to bring me closer to the look I'd like to own with the conviction of Pauley Perrette or Debbie Mazar.  But most days I'm closer to the flying nun than I am to Gidget.