Fashionista

Unlike my mom and my sisters, I didn't inherit the clotheshorse gene. I don't have a closetful of trendy clothes. I am, in fact. perfectly happy with a few slacks, a handful of blouses, jeans and some shirts. Skirts and dresses I have long given up on, especially after gaining these unflattering bulges.

Ah, but such is not the case with Gianna. Call it a cosmic joke, but I find it really funny that the universe gave me a fashionista for a daughter. The girl loves dressing up, and the frilly clothes are sometimes a tad too much for me. She loves pink, shiny-shimmery stuff and has actually taken to mounting "modeling" shows for the lolo and the lola. She is not wont to throw tantrums at the toy section or at the candy store, but if she doesn't get this fancy pair of shoes or that flashy belt, you might as well brace yourself for a whining, whimpering spell.

Recently, Gianna has been training a critical eye on my stuff. And she has come up with her fashionista "recommendations." Ixnay on those bureaucratic "uniforms." Try on (pink) stilettos. Wear (pink) strappy shirts to the office. And use (pink) ribbons on your hair.

I get it. She wants me to be her clone.



Note: The "ensemble" on the picture is a gift. And yes, I have since chucked the belt.