Part Four: Underneath it all
Subtitle: you are what you wear.

So then, all was well (meaning I didn’t buy anything else) until we hit Nordstrom. We were going to look for bras, and the fitting ladies at Nordstrom are my bra-fitting-gurus. Genius they are, in a class all their own (except perhaps for the one creepy guy I keep hearing about down at 32nd Street and Thomas - who apparently can accurately tell your exact bra size just by looking at you, but I digress).

It so happens that my own bras are not giving me quite the lift and separation they used to. After a year and a half of yanking them down breastfeed multiple times a day I was inching closer and closer back to saggy and draggy.

Can’t have that.

So, we did the measuring* and the trying and all that necessary but not so fun stuff and found what we needed (although my usual M.O. is to figure out what I need at Nordstrom and then find it for 1/3 of the cost on eBay. Shhh - don’t tell anyone). On the way to pay we happened to glance around at the panty selection.

Right in front of me I saw the most beautiful circular rainbow of brightly coloured wisps of lace - the display for the Hanky Panky Low Rise Thong. My mind went to my current underwear drawer, filled with dingy, grayish, serviceable panties (not granny panties, mind you, I have not sunk that low yet). Nothing even remotely approaching sexy to be found.

In my former life I had a drawer full of the cutest lingerie - matching bras and panties for all occasions and outfit requirements. After all, you never know when you’re going to get in that car accident or…something. But then I got married and had kids and [insert sad, pathetic all-to-familiar tale of finding happiness but losing bits of ones self along the way]. Somehow at that moment, I felt like my entire life could be summed up by my pathetic underwear collection.

I saw the $18 price tag, and winced. First $100 dollar denim and now $20 underpants? I must have been mistaking myself for someone with money.

I tried to talk myself out of it, really I did** but then I saw that they came in the most perfect kelly green (I so love green, don’t you?). They called my name much too loudly for any remaining shred of common sense to drown out their tempting siren song. I didn’t have a chance, don’t you see?

After all, wouldn’t it be wrong to wear my amazing new clothes with depressing, old worn out underwear underneath? Almost insulting, somehow. I mean, there’s always that threat of a car accident or…something.

Perhaps it was the catchy beat of Nickelback’s Rockstar that was playing in the store at the time that convinced me I was just the kind of girl who needed these panties (I mean, don’t we all just wanna be a rockstar?). Rockstars do not, I am certain, wear boring, dingy panties.

Whatever justification I throw at it (and clearly I can come up with several), I left the store with those panties.

I abhor the thought of becoming predictable, but you knew I would, didn’t you?

They are so worth the 20 bucks. I have gone through several thong wearing periods, but (no matter how much I tried to convince myself) it was never a comfort thing. It was often a practical panty line thing - nobody wants to be the only one in the room with a bad case of VPL.

There’s also the whole idea that nice undergarments are kind of like a bullet proof vest. No matter what the rest of you looks like, if you’ve got on nice lingerie it’s still possible to feel like everything is under control. I could wear dirty sweats and not brush my hair - but if I was wearing this for instance, I am fairly certain I could take on the world.

Indeed (I feel my very own feminist treatise coming on) nice lingerie is all about female empowerment. Uh huh.

And also, there is always that car accident possibility.

…Okay - back on track…

So seriously, these panties ARE all that and then some. Apparently Hollywood loves them as well (there’s that rockstar thing again). They are comfy, they are beyond sexy, and being low rise, thin lace and thong-ish they are, in reality, quite functional too. All this - and one size fits most - a veritable miracle of modern fashion engineering. When I’m wearing them I feel a bit saucier, a bit sexier, and a little bit bad, in a very good way.

I think I’ve been talking about them a tad too much though. Recently, my friends and I got a hotel suite in Scottsdale for our annual sanity retreat (highly recommended, all you mamas out there). Apparently I went on-and-on about my passionate feeling for my new panties (I say apparently, ‘cause I consumed a few frozen strawberry margaritias, so I couldn’t necessarily give an accurate report).

At some point my friend Nancy told me to “Take off your *ucking pants already” and just show everyone the damn things.*** If you know Nancy, you’ll know she just doesn’t talk like that (that would be Karen’s role). She so startled me that I found myself standing up and unzipping my jeans (yes, those jeans) to give them a peek. I had to. You just don’t say no to Nancy, especially when she gets all tough like that.

[Note: Despite my peek-a-boo sessions with some of my nearest and dearest, this entry will not be accompanied by another self-portrait. A lady has to keep SOME things from her public. It’s the air of mystery that keeps you coming back, and all that.]

I want to own more pairs. I want my own miniature lace rainbow. I am being held back however, by the idea that I could have five pairs of panties, or another brand new pair of kick ass expensive jeans.

Tough call.

* Dream Shameless Strapless by Le Mystere: 32 G. Thirty-two G! So much for my hopes that they had gotten smaller since Jules cut down on nursing.

**Don’t think I can’t see the skeptical smirk on your face. I’m crazy intuitive like that.

***My friends, dear though they are, do not take well to the idea that they cannot know and see everything about my life. And yea - Crazy Queen K - I’m talking ‘bout you in particular.

Part Three: How much?
Subtitle: did you see my ass in these?

From there it’s a wee bit of a blur (but I don’t *think* I spent any money, which is good, considering the direction the day was taking) until we hit Express to hunt for some jeans. Mani had gotten some Editor* denim trousers there last year, so it seemed like a good place to start the hunt for perfect denim.

Generally I find trying on jeans to be an emotionally scaring/self-esteem crushing experience. You know, rather like that horrible breakup in college when your boyfriend left you for the Claudia Schiffer look-a-like. Or, trying to wear non-maternity pants for the first time after giving birth. It takes me to a bad place, really it does - there’s no good can possibly come of it. On that note, I avoid jean-trying-on like the plague, unless I’m feeling particularly thin and desirable or it’s an absolute emergency (you know, like the world is going to end).

However, there were big signs proclaiming $20 off on an entire line of jeans - and you already know what sale signs do to my common sense (see previous entry re: the zone). Obviously Mani was similarly possessed, as we both started willy-nilly pulling one of everything off the racks. Then of course we needed some shirts to try on with the jeans, and we were off to the fitting rooms.

[On a related note - do you know that some stores won’t let you share a fitting room with a friend? I think it’s ridiculous. When I go shopping with someone I don’t want to come out and parade myself in front of a bunch of random strangers only to be told that maybe I should consider putting that particular dress back on the rack because my bosoms are hanging out in an alarming fashion. Plus, I always forget that many stores have rooms that lock automatically, and I inevitably end up locked out, standing and waiting for an employee to wander by and let me back in my room to get changed. So much easier to just take all the clothes into one room and try things on together - don’t you think?]

In the end, wonder of wonders, there was one style of jeans** that looked pretty damn fabulous on both of us (if I do say so myself). Rare, I think, for that to happen. We have totally different body shapes; she’s bootylicious (and a damn fine booty it is too) and I’m rather unfortunately booty-less. Somehow though, when we pulled on those pants some sorta voodoo magic occurred.

It wasn’t just the surprisingly welcome booty-enhancement. Why, my legs grew at least a few inches, and my unfortunate muffin-top (oh, bane-of-my-existence, why do you torture me so?) was fortunately reduced. Nothing bunched, nothing squeezed - almost as comfy as a pair of sweatpants. Almost. It seemed as if these things were stitched by the goddess herself with some sort of magic thread***. For the photographers reading - it was like Photoshops Liquify Filter come to life.

Of course, at this point we were happy because we both thought we’d found an awesome pair of jeans for $40. Come to find out, Express has a high end line too - and we’d fallen in love with $98 dollar pair of jeans.

Damn!

[For a short while I allow myself to consider - what kind of wonders could the $300 variety of denim create? Quickly, I recognize that this - given my ability to forget that I do not have the sort of bank balance that could support a $300 jean habit - could be a VERY dangerous line of thought to pursue. I mean, I’ve got my Lush addition to consider. I bring myself reluctantly back to reality].

Now, I know spending a hundred bucks on a pair of jeans is not a big deal to some, but to this Flaming-Goodwill-Queen it seems like near sacrilege. But still, if you’d seen our asses in those jeans - you’d know why we had to go ahead and do it. I mean, it would have been wrong not to share that with the world, almost criminal really. We did it for the benefit of humanity - not to please our own selfish desires.

My decision to also buy two more tops and toss in a chunky silver bracelet at the cash is slightly less justifiable. But whatever, I blame it on the zone - and the fact that I was still giddy over the fact that those jeans made my butt looked borderline perky.

Wanna see?

*Express’s Editor pants are just the nicest cut, best fitting pants I’ve ever gotten from a mall chain store…I think I have them in three different fabrics/weights and they really seem to look great on almost everyone. Check them out, won’t you?

**Wicked West Style Stiletto Skinny Denim - Misty Indigo

***For those of you who will inevitably see the jeans in person. If you look at me and think to yourself “Sheesh - she’s on crack. They must have those trick mirrors in the Express store”…please keep those thoughts to yourself. Don’t burst my bubble baby, not after I spent a hundred bucks on the damn things. I prefer to maintain my delusions, they keep me happy.

Part Two: Lush-ious
Subtitle: Come on, feel my skin, you know you want to.

Next we went to Lush. If you’ve never been to Lush - please do yourself a favour and just don’t go there.

Just. Don’t. Go.*

If you happen to see the storefront while strolling the halls of your favorite mall, just take a deep breath, put your head down and walk away. I’m not kidding people.

It’s the single most addictive store I have ever visited. Ever. I think I’ve spent more on skin care since discovering that place than I have in the last ten years. I also think that they put some sort of highly addictive ingredient into their products…um - like crack. My skin has never looked better** and it’s all that good - but seriously, it ain’t cheap.

The sales girls are all so young and lovely and cute. And I can tell that they, like, really want to help me. It’s not about selling with them; they got the job because they care deeply about my skin care issues and want to help me achieve the happier and more fulfilling life that comes with radiant skin. They really do. It’s an altruistic thing, a higher calling. I felt it man, right here in my heart.

They also have this ingenious suck-you-in-didn’t-see-it-coming-till-too-late marketing plan. You buy one thing, you get three samples. Next time you visit you want to buy four things, and you get two more samples. On your next visit you’re up to six items, and it just keeps building. Before you know it, you’re hiding shopping bags from your husband and filling out an employment application so you can get the employee discount.***

I beat my last purchase record (not telling you how much, scared to confess) and left with a bag full of goodies, and a boat load full of shoppers guilt (but not true remorse…that’s something entirely different and would have involved returning something - which I have no intention of doing).

Ah hem…

Just some random picture of some obsessive Lush customer’s purchases. Not my stuff. No sireee.

*Okay - if you have to go, then check out… Not saying I bought all this stuff of course, you understand, because that would have been excessive and oh-so-wrong…I’m just making a suggestion is all.
Buffy
Mask of Magnaminty
Coal Face Soap
Tea Tree Water
Imperalis Moisturizer
Cupcake Mask - only sold in stores. Like chocolate pudding for your face.

**I still get zits. I’ll get zits till the day I die, unfortunately. However, I get far fewer now, and they are not as bad, and the rest of my skin? Like buttah.

***Not that I’m doing that, of course. And it’s not because I can’t, it’s because I’m not the least bit tempted. The thought really never crossed my mind. Am I convincing you?

Musings on panties as a feminist statement, pricey denim, and shoes as an expression of self….

Why yes, I have been shopping. Why do you ask?

A few weeks ago, Mani and I took off for that indoor mecca that is Scottsdale Fashion Square - where hoity toity Neiman’s exists just a short walk down the fall from the trendy young’uns at Wet Seal and where BCBG and Betsey Johnson don’t seem to mind being neighbours with Build-A-Bear. A little bizarre yes, but whatever.

Part One: The Zone
Subtitle: This is where it all gets a little foggy

Our mission, I thought, was to find clothes for Mani like I did last year (Oh, how I love getting in touch with my inner Stacy and Clinton. I totally missed my calling as a personal shopper). Somehow though, we hadn’t been in Anthropologie (sigh. my heart is always happy there) for more than five seconds before I was in the zone.

You know the zone, right? (The one brought on my lovely clothing combined with red clearance signs and a credit card just waiting to be used. A powerful combo, to be sure)

By the time we made it to the fitting room I think the sales associates had unburdened our arms at least three times. Although neither one of us ended up buying anything, we were on fire (and I discovered that I look dang cute - in a sexy librarian-ish sorta way - in reading glasses something like these. Who knew?). Trying on this one made me realize that I will not be complete if I don’t find a fabulous red dress somewhere. [How is it that I don’t own a fabulous red dress already? Why, it just doesn’t seem right, does it?] And then, I think I want this, and this, and this. I also reluctantly left behind this dress, even though it made me look skinnier than I’ve looked since 1999, because I was determined not to spend any money.

Uh huh. Right.

To be continued…

Thank you Leigh!

Leigh did a little live blogging thing the other day, and one of the slides showed her checking her blogs through iGoogle.com. I was intrigued so I went and checked it out, signed up for Google Reader and never looked back.

Seriously, don’t laugh. This has revolutionized my blog reading experience. Would you believe that up till now I’ve been doing this the old fashioned way, just clicking on individual links in my own blog side bar. In some cases (insert incredulous gasp) even painstakingly typing in the entire URL on my own. Am I lame or what?

I tried Bloglines before, but the flow and layout of it never really worked for me. This Google Reader thing just makes it all so easy. I just added my subscriptions, and now when I log in all the updated blogs are just sitting there and waiting for me, all orderly and well-behaved-like. When I read one it, quite properly, removes itself to the back of the line until it’s got something new to show me. No more obsessive checking and re-checking for updates, no more stalking my favorites waiting for new posts. I just sit back and let them all come to me baby.

I’ve already subscribed to 77 blogs (combo of mommy blogs, photoblogs and birth blogs - summing up my life and interests quite nicely) and now I can keep up with all of them on a daily basis.

I’m in blog bliss right now, I tell you.

PS: It’s almost 1030, and Bella is still awake. You know what is keeping her up tonight? One lone-f’ing-phantom-bastard-buzzing mosquito. Apparently, the goal of its short, pathetic life is to single handedly drive me insane. The damn thing has been surviving my increasingly desperate attempts to squash it into oblivion, and the freaking incessant buzzing has Bella so paranoid that she is lying in bed with her eyes wide open, spasmodically jerking this way and that whenever she hears the thing. I’m beginning to feel a little irrational about the thing myself. Wish me luck.

Marybeth, this one is for you and me (okay, so ignore the part about tearing apart behinds) the rest though…cracked. me. up.

This is so how mornings and nights have been around here lately. Ah - the simple peace that comes from knowing you are not alone…