Your holiday fashion guide, pulled from the archives of Christmases past:
When the Executive and her teenage daughter claimed they had the jingle balls to wear holiday-themed sweaters in places where they would actually be seen, the girl and I dropped everything to rise to the challenge.
We would find the most appalling holiday sweaters the Midwest could produce; social suicide in a cable knit.
"I will wear my Christmas sweater in first class," brags the frequent-flying Executive.
Her daughter, a 15-year-old with ordinarily impeccable fashion sense, claims she will wear our sweater to a Justin Bieber concert. How my daughter's eyes lit up at the thought of that!
And so, it was on. The 2011 No-Limit, How Low Can We Go Christmas Sweater Throwdown. As it has developed so far, the rules go something like this:
1. An exchange of sweaters shall take place between two mother-daughter teams. Team Kamikaze selects the sweaters to be worn by Team Executive and vice versa.
2. Points are awarded to team members for skill in procuring the most appalling sweater possible and for risking the greatest amount of social currency in wearing such a sweater in public.
3. We will post the pictures as we go and you, our devoted reader, can award points in the comment section. Or stars if you prefer. Whatever. Create your own system, but be sure to use decimals because that makes the judging seem more professional.
I won't lie to you. We like our chances. Because we didn't take any. We started at Goodwill. And went downhill from there.
Girl Kamikaze's creation is just about the cruelest thing I have ever seen. She is in her third year of middle school, which is pretty much like having a Ph.D. in Social Cruelty. If she had a little more time, I am pretty sure this sweater would have a Christmas tree attached somewhere. Girl Executive may be the first teenager in Justin Bieber concert history praying that he will not notice her.
My vision for the Executive is, by comparison, a fairly restrained little number. I can see her wearing it as she settles back into her extra wide seat among the better class of people, jingling with entitlement as she reaches for her cocktail, sending out gleaming arrows of reflected light upon the faces of the rabble as they make their way back to steerage...
Team Kamikaze: Please. We are going to own this.