Acne Treatment: The ten things meme--beautified

I'm stealing this from my stylish friend blackbird, who got it from Kim. I'm skewing it more beauty-and-style, to fit in with the nature of this blog:

My mother tells me I was her prettiest and most delicate-looking baby. What. the. hell. happened.
I was born in Boston and lived in Massachusetts until I moved to Chicago 23 years ago. I found Chicagoans almost impossibly glamorous. To those of you who scoff (reasoning that Chicago, after all, is in the midwest) I answer: you obviously haven't been to New England. Whenever I fly into Boston, I'm struck by how L. L. Bean everyone looks. One of my favorite all-time makeover movies, Now Voyager, illustrates my point. See Bette Davis as the repressed Bostonian spinster transformed into a much-less-repressed spinster ... with fabulous clothes. (My love for makeover movies has both depth and breadth and obviously deserves a post of its own.)
The Italians are the best-dressed people on the face of the earth. They have access to the finest fabrics and craftsmen, and their color sense is beyond reproach. I'll never forget a Sunday morning in Venice, watching the Venetian ladies walk home from mass with their thin-soled elegant shoes and cashmere stoles thrown just so over their shoulders. Sorry, Parisians.
I would love to live on an island. Luckily, I do, every summer. It's in New Hampshire, and when I'm there, I am astonishingly fashion-forward. I enjoy that.
I used to think that once our children moved out of the house, we'd sell our small house in the suburbs and move to the city full time. Now I imagine us buying a larger house and installing each child in a separate wing. Sort of like Dallas or Dynasty, except without the intrigue, rivalries, trophy wives, and shoulder pads. After all, if our kids can't make it on their own--if they end up total slackers--I might as well get some extra closet space.
Here's why this is an issue: I just discovered--as they casually alluded to it over dinner one night--that both my kids have absolute pitch, meaning (to you musicians out there) that if you ask them to sing a G, they can. Which means they both might end up as musicians. I'm OK with it. But if they go rock 'n' roll, I'm going to have to rethink my wardrobe. Sharon Osbourne will be my new mentor. I'm envisioning wearing a lot more leather than I currently do. (Which is none, except for shoes.)
Speaking of shoes, as much as I urge everyone to sort through their wardrobes and cull what doesn't work anymore, I'm always worried that I'm giving stuff to the thrift shop just as it's about to be revived. Are severely pointy-toed shoes coming back in? Or do Saks and Neimans continue to stock the same old Jimmy Choo and Manolo styles to confuse me? This puzzles me.
For a while there about five years ago, Lilly Pulitzer and I were likethis. We aren't any more, but I still have tons of Lilly in my (inadequate, too small, dark, old-fashioned) closets. I really should donate it to the thrift shop, but it cheers me up to open the closet door and see a kaleidoscope.
I can't even tell you how much I hate being a size 16. On the other hand, I can't imagine how much money I'd spend on clothes if I were a six 6.
Not surprisingly, one of my greatest pleasures is taking my size 2 daughter out shopping. I love teaching her about what's appropriate for her age and way of life--but I love buying her a Betsy Johnson short ball skirt because of the way she jumps and spins when she tries it on.