crackerjacks, we meet again

Before Camille was born, I had a pair of classic 13-button navy wool sailor pants. I don't remember buying them and I don't remember getting rid of them. Who runs this outfit?

I've been searching for another pair for oh, about ten years. In Portland, at one terrific vintage store, the 100-year doyen who ran the place knew exactly what I wanted, "Those high-waisted pants that make your legs look a mile long? So sexy with the little lace up the back!" she sticks out her tiny vintage-Chanel-suit covered bum. The pants are named after the carmel-covered-popcorn-peanuts-and-a-prize because that's what the kid on the front of the box has been wearing since 1918, she told me. But she was fresh out of sailor pants and I never made it to the military surplus store where I could probably have bought them for $1.

This summer, we poked through Santa Cruz's many vintage clothing stores. In one store we visited quite a few times, you could time travel from decade to decade, genre to genre: 1950's musician cowboy to '70s LA cocktail party attendee to '80s skateboarder to '30s burlesque dancer. They had it all, which was awesome, as who among us doesn't want to be all those things?

I guess I also want to be a sailor. These are my new (old) favorite pants, all-wool, indistructable, warm, perfect for everywhere from San Francisco to Moscow and all ports of call in between. Note to self: don't get rid of the vintage stuff.