Tag Archives: shopping

Shapong Sprit at Plato's

So first I should explain . . . once my sister Erica and I shopped.

This was in Bloomington Indiana back in 2006, right before my husband and I moved away to Delaware for three years. We hit up all our favorite stores, and came back laden with bags . . . and this dog.

Just kidding! We did not purchase this dog–we just used him to de-stress at a mid-shopping pet store breather. I held him at arm’s length because I was afraid he would pee on me. Or maybe he already had peed on me. I’ve had 4 years to heal, and have blocked the details from my mind.

Erica had just cut my hair very short. It had gone from this length earlier that year:

To this:

During this shopping spree, we hit what I like to call a historical sugar low. We started laughing, then crying and laughing, and finally I took a hard seat on the sidewalk because I was so weakened by laughter and lack of food and the overwhelmingness of shopping for hours that my legs were no longer supporting me.

Erica uttered the now famous phrase “Quick, where’s your camera, I need to take a picture of you while you’re down!” This was the picture:

In fact, you can even see that we had been to Plato’s Closet (you can see the ‘S’ on the bag).

Somehow during the madness Erica and I provoke in one another, the ‘shopping spree’ became the ‘shapong sprit.’ We dubbed this specific shapong sprit “The Emperor’s Last Stand” because it was to be our last big extravaganza before I moved away.

Last Wednesday, as you know, I had a little shapong sprit of my own since my husband was out of town and I had time to kill. I hit up Plato’s Closet, my hands-down favorite store of all time, amen and amen.

By the end of my excursion and about 10 trips to the dressing room (in which I tried on at least 50 items, no joke–my strategy is to try everything on, though that ‘everything’ really amounted to 0.001% of the total items in the store), I was ready to be home. However, an hour of transit awaited me in which a bus failed to show up, traffic lights kept faking me out and making me think the bus was finally coming when it wasn’t, I walked a lot, and then as I was dashing up the steps to catch the train at the Fullerton El stop, I fell across the stairs and skinned my hand. I immediately felt like I was in 3rd grade and all the kids were about to start laughing. However, this is Chicago, and no one even noticed–or if they did, they kept it to themselves and moved on with their busy and important lives. I picked myself up off the steps, gave a self-deprecating laugh, and continued on my way. And then I felt stupid for even thinking the self-deprecating laugh was necessary.

Then I boarded the train and spent 25 minutes in very close proximity to a homeless woman. And she smelled . . . very bad. Very, very, very. Every time the train doors opened, the breeze blew that scent straight up my nose, and my stomach literally turned over. I thought for a moment I was going to retch. I briefly considered moving to the other end of the train car, but then I thought “would Jesus move to the other end of the train car?” I pondered this question for a while. Surely his stomach wasn’t made of cast iron? Then again, without indoor plumbing, maybe he was used to such smells. By the time we reached my stop, my brain was in a confused muddle of sensations and ideas: BO, respect for others, urine, loving the poor, and also the sneaking suspicion that I was making a mountain out of a mole hill in my frenzied, shopped-out mind.

As soon as I got home, I hit the shower. The scent of unwashed human still clinging to my nasal passages combined with the sweat congealing on my own body (from all that taking on-and-off of clothes in the dressing room) and my hideous hair (too much product in it) sent me running toward that cleansing experience. I briefly considered completely covering myself in Noxzema face wash (a reoccurring dream of mine), but I decided that would be wasteful. And decadent. And maybe kinda weird. But one day! One day, my friends, I will do it, decency be hanged.

Anyway.

One of the things I miss about shopping with my sisters is that there’s no one to review the purchases with. We have a ritual called exactly that: “Review the Purchases.” When we get home from our outing, we each take turns pulling one thing (and one thing only) out of our bags, and holding it up for everyone to see. Then we cut off the tags and place the viewed item in a neat, folded pile. We continue taking turns until the shopping bags are empty. It’s a fun way of revisiting what we bought that makes it feel a little like Christmas. Plus, on a large-ish shopping spree, you tend to forget that awesome camis that you bought at the 2nd store, or that bracelet you picked up at the 85th store, so it feels like a surprise when you pull it out. Not that I ever make it to the 85th store–I’m lucky if I can last through 3 of them. Especially if there’s mall music playing–that stuff turns me into a dehydrated empty brained zombie.

Alas, on Wednesday night there was no one to review the purchases with.

(I realize that if there are any male readers, I am bound to have lost you by now, if not earlier.)

I was also way too tired to review them even by myself, so instead I did exactly as I had threatened to you all in that post; I grabbed a bowl of rice and a bowl of popcorn, a bottle of water to rehydrate, and settled in to watch “Maid to Order” on Netflix. It was a lovely time, even though the 80s were a sad, sad era for female hairdos, and the matching his-and-her mullets of the two main characters had me very confused about gender identity.

Thursday, being my second night alone, I decided that my only alternative was to share my purchases with my sisters . . . via my blog. Oh, and with the rest of you too–I leave nobody out! So I grabbed my camera and took some pictures, which I bring you on this fine October morning (though I realize by now it is almost 2 weeks later). This will probably send you running at a sprint to the nearest Plato’s–because it’s just that awesome. And cheap. And if you happen to find some black leather boots with flat bottoms in a size 10 that come just below the knee, could you please purchase them for me? And I’ll pay you back? See, I’ve been looking for the perfect boots for about a decade now, and it still ain’t happened. I need to get to a place in my life where I’m comfortable spending $100 on a pair, and then I doubt I’ll have any trouble finding something to my liking–but that time has not come.

Anyway, to the fun stuff!

First, there were these shoes–Steve Madden, $10.

I adore them. Since my husband and I are the same height, I can’t do the whole heels scene, so I take great, great joy in a gorgeous pair of flats.

Then again, Nicole Kidman never seemed self-conscious about towering over Tom Cruise, so maybe I need to get over my issues and channel my inner Nicole.

Then, there was this necklace.

I tried it on on a whim, feeling dubious because the dangling pieces are heart-shaped–I thought that might be too teenibopper for me. However, I LOVED it. Here it is paired with a maternity shirt I found.

Maternity schmaternity. It’s long and flowy and I adore it.

I could also talk at length here about the difficulty of photographing clothing that’s not on someone. I had no idea it was so hard to get a flattering shot of a shirt. I draped it over the bed, over a chair, held it up with one arm while holding my camera in the  other, and finally gave up and hung it from a sconce on my bedroom wall.

I briefly wished for one of the many mannequins that populate my grandparent’s living room, until I remembered how much they creep me out.

Then I simply put the shirt on, thinking this would solve the problem. But the difficulties continued. Doing a photographic self-portrait with an external flash that showcases the clothing you’re wearing–it would take decades of hard work to master this skill. I also had to really focus to relax my forehead. Something about shooting a picture of myself in a mirror makes me wrinkle my brow and put on a Yoda face. The picture below was the only useable shot–I like to call it “bimbo face.” And when it’s Yodaface versus Bimboface, I’ll pick Bimbo any day.

And yes, that little grey sweater was also an awesome, awesome find. Express brand, $12.

Though is it bothering anyone else that my necklace appears to be off center? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

This belt is très, très interesting:

I’ve never seen clasps quite like it–they have little hooks that fit into the holes in the leather. Fascinating.

Vvreeerrrry unique.

I’m in love with this little shirt/dress because the color reminds me of . . . Christmas!!!!

Not to speak of the $8 price tag. And whaddya know, it goes with the belt and the necklace . . .

. . . it’s like I bought all these items together, or something!

And this dress. Mmmmm–look at the shimmery fabric.

My cousin-in-law Stephanie wore something like this to my sister Heidi’s wedding. I’ve always remembered it. Now I can be exactly like Stephanie!

OK, minus the cute and petite athletic bod. And the flawless tan skin. And the awesome hair. And the ability to run marathons.

And can you guess what I’m going to say next–

–I’ll give you one guess and one guess only–

–yes! It also goes with the necklace!

AND THE BELT!!! It’s like everything is working together for the greater good.

I can shift the belt clasps to the side (above) or to the center (below) for a different look. Both looks scream “Star Trek” to me somehow. I can totally see this belt over a yellow felt bodysuit with black leather cutouts across one arm.

The belt put me behind a whopping $6.

Oh man . . . but there’s that off-center necklace issue again. Why do you have to be off center? Why are you such a little rebel? I’ve never been anything but good to you!

And for the crowning glory . . . two Guess coats.

They were more than I normally spend on an item at Plato’s, but let me explain.

I’ve been needing a warm winter coat. You see, I’ve been wearing the same felt coat since I was 16 years old. It’s holding up, but it’s not looking very fresh these days–plus it’s not warm enough to wear on its own. This requires layering it with a fleece or sweatshirt, and every item I have to take on and off as I go outside to the train in the morning, then inside to work, then outside to the train, then inside to the grocery store, then outside to head home, (etc. etc.) creates more static in my hair. And static in my hair just makes me crabby. Yes, I was pretty much crabby the entirety of last winter and I blame it on my old coat. Also, the pockets are completely ripped out, there threads are hanging everywhere, and, well, you get the picture. “Coat” has been on my Christmas list for about 5 years. About every other year, my parents give me a little handmade voucher that says I can go buy a coat and put an end to my sufferings. However, I can never find one to my liking, so inevitably they end up financing the purchase of a sweater or a dress instead.

When I saw these coats and tried them on, I knew this was it. They would fulfill the void in my life. They would fit the bill for not one, but two needs:

1) The ‘attractive’ coat that pairs well with work clothes.

2) The ‘sleeping bag’ coat that is necessary when the Chicago winds are trying to murder you as you wait for the bus on a cold and dark morning.

I was about to resign myself and purchase a butt ugly but functional coat from an online retailer whose name will not be mentioned. I was prepared to spend $120 or so. So in my mind, that completely justifies purchasing 2 coats for a lot less. Um, right? OK, fine–for considerably less. OK.

Right.

OK.

Plus, this coat has this really useful little chain.

What does it do?

Well that’s a great question.

Someone cooler than I am knows the answer.

In the interest of full disclosure, when I tried them on at home again, I discovered a small rip in the lining of the grey coat under the right arm. I beat myself up immediately for not demanding a discount at the register. Then I decided I had no interest in beating myself up and it didn’t matter anyway. So I grabbed my needle and thread and quickly patched it up while watching Episode 11 of Project Runway. Yes, I like to sew while watching people sew on Project Runway, and I like to exercise while watching other people exercise on The Biggest Loser. But is it really so wrong?

And in the interest of full, full disclosure, there was a third coat.

Has she gone hog wild, you ask??

The answer is ‘yes.’

But it was adorable and feminine and had a full skirt. A little snug (so no layering it with really heavy sweaters) but perfect for these fall days we are among.

It was très, très cheap. I’m sorry I keep saying très. But don’t you like to speak fake French when the subject of fashion is at hand?

OK, enough revelations. You’ve heard it all.

See you all tomorrow for more ridiculousness, fun, and the very first guest post in the long and illustrious history of this blog. I’ll give you a hint as to her identity: she’s blonde. I spank her on a regular basis. She coined the name “Explosivo” for one of my future children.

Be there or be square!

Shopping, sweatpants, and chick flicks

I love the companionship that marriage brings. I love spending time with my husband, cooking with and for him, listening to the news from Lake Wobegon on Sundays, goofing off together and brushing our teeth together. We have such a comfortable set up–after 5 years of marriage, he has taken over all the gross tasks in the house: he cleans my hair out of the trap in the shower drain. He takes out the trash. He deals with expired leftovers from the fridge. He scrubs the kitchen floor. I plan the meals and take charge of the cooking. I clean the bathroom, and do the vacuuming. I even kill the occasional bug! And if you knew what kind of critters frequent our walls, you might be wowed (I’ll give you a hint: a million legs, creepity-crawlity, many waving antennae, sometimes have purple blood). I’m open to change, but I love the routines and habits we’ve established. I wouldn’t trade life with him for anything.

And in case you’re getting the idea that we just go from routine to routine, that’s not it at all–oh, I’m full of surprises. For example, in the middle of the teeth-brushing experience, I love to quickly tooth-brush his arm. It always makes him jump, which gives me much glee. I also love sticking my finger in his mouth when he yawns, so that when he closes his mouth there’s a surprise! He knows to be on the lookout for this, though, and has managed to block my attempts many times. Yes, these are the elements that keep our marriage vibrant. Give it a try–scrub your tooth brush on your spouse’s face or arm. It will quickly infuse your relationship with fresh energy. Follow it up by a firm spank on the butt. That always helps the fun factor for all involved.

Anyway, getting to the point of the post, every now and then my husband is out of town, and I get to enjoy a night to myself. Or two, as is the case this time! I don’t have a lot of alone time in the house, so to me this feels like a special treat. I can walk around in something comfy and hideous that makes me look like a sad old carpet. I can leave my hair stuff all over the sink. I won’t make the bed if I don’t feel like it. I can read myself to sleep and turn off the lights whenever I deem the time is right.

You know, it’s a good thing he rarely goes out of town, because living alone I would clearly spiral out of control and live in my ugly blue college sweat pants until they fell off my body in rotten, moth-eaten shreds. Yes, I may complain sometimes when my husband requests that I wear cute sleepwear instead of the derelict pieces I favor. But underneath it all . . . I’m grateful to have someone to dress for. Someone whose face lights up when I throw on a cute tank top instead of a flannel shirt with rips in the armpits.

And for the record, I threw away that flannel shirt a year ago.

Anyway, my husband is at his parents’ house for a couple days because his brother is home from college on his fall break. Unfortunately this is happening during the work week, so I can’t go. This is particulary disappointing because I haven’t been able to see his brother since he moved into the dorms in August for his sophomore year of college, and I’m especially curious about his stint as . . . (wait for it) . . .

. . . (wait for it some more) . . .

Homecoming Queen! Yes. He goes to an all-boys college, and apparently for Homecoming the different dorms and fraternities each nominate a candidate to take on the role of Queen. So my tall and strapping brother in law won the votes of his fellow students and paraded around. In a dress.

Not only was he parading around in drag, but for the day leading up to the event he had people call him “Johnena,” which (being a more feminine version of his name) helped him get into character. Will the wonders never cease??

I can only hope that someone took pictures, and that somehow I can get my little mitts on them. Besides wanting to see if he wore lipstick (and if so, what brand and shade–I think a nice coral tone with hints of gold would suit his complexion well) I think this is the perfect blackmail material that I can use in maybe 20 years when he’s an important, upstanding citizen. “You know I have those pictures of you in what some may consider ‘drag’. . . ,” I’ll  hiss with an evil glint, “so unless you want them SPLAYED ALL OVER MY BLOG, I need you to bake me a batch of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies RIGHT NOW! Hop to it! Let’s go! Prestamente! Get them on the next FedEx truck!” I’ll cry maniacally. I anticipate gaining many delicious treats through this exortion over the years. When blackmail = baked goods, you know you have done everything you can to ensure a happy and fulfilling life for yourself.

For the record, this looks nothing like my brother-in-law–but I couldn’t resist the temptation to illustrate a little, and my man-drawing skills are limited and depend completely on giving my sketch facial hair so that you can recognize it’s a man in the first place. This is what happens when I have nothing to do at work, my boss is really cool, and I have a permanent marker and a scanner within arm’s reach. Thank you for indulging me.

But instead of focusing on my losses, namely that I won’t be able to a) tease my brother-in-law mercilessly and hear about all his capers and escapades, b) drink a bottle of soft red Oliver wine with my wonderful mother-in-law, or c) get my dose of family which is waaay overdue, I’ve decided to focus on my gains.

I have the run of the house!!!!!!! Once I get home from work, I have zero responsibilities. I can go hog wild! However, for any concerned readers, this will not involve Chinese take-out from a certain food establishment (the whole fiasco is chronicled in this post). Been there, done that, and suffered for it, my friends.

For tonight, the plan is:

1) Go to Plato’s Closet. This second hand store in Lincoln Park is one of my favorite places to shop. OK, so I’ve only been there once since moving to Chicago over a year ago–but I was also a faithful customer of this franchise in Bloomington, Indiana and Newark, Delaware. I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever move to a town without a Plato’s. Once you get used to paying $8 for a pair of Express or Gap jeans, it’s just really hard to go back.

This little excursion will take a while, with a train ride and a bus ride and who knows what else. That’s probably a good thing. The incovenience of getting there via public transit will allow me to limit my shopping trips to twice a year instead of twice a day. In Bloomington, I worked right next to a Plato’s. I suffered, I agonized, I tore at my scalp–and I shopped.

2) Get home and put on some rice. Fry some eggs, heat up some tomato sauce and dump blue cheese over the whole wild combo. Yes, I know I’ve talked about this dish fifty million times in about every other post. But what do you expect? I’m addicted! I can’t help myself! Blame it on the blue cheese! Or even better, eat it yourself and then you will understand. If there are any blue cheese haters out there, please identify yourselves immediately and understand that I just don’t know if I can be your friend anymore.

Oh, except Ellen. She doesn’t like blue cheese, but I totally can’t give her up as a friend. Oh, and Vessie. I don’t think she likes blue cheese very much either, but since she was one of my bridesmaids and we just had a smashing weekend together in Texas at our friend Sarah’s house, I can’t exactly cut her out of the equation of my life. Not yet.

But as for the rest of you! Be warned.

3) Fire up Netflix Instant Play on the computer. Drag the comfy chair over to the computer (foot stool optional). Envelope myself in an afghan, snuggle down, and watch a ridiculous chick flick that I would be embarassed to admit to watching as I chow down on my hot bowl of rice.

4) Stop the movie halfway; make popcorn. Make tea. Finish the movie while consuming the popcorn and the tea (Tension Tamer–it may be placebo affect, but it makes stress just melt into a puddle of sleepiness).

5) Snuggle into bed with my current book, which is fuzzy territory since I just finished ‘The Pillars of the Earth’ and couldn’t get into my next read, ‘Queen of the South’. If desperate, I will resort to a faithful, well-worn Christy Miller paperback. Read until my eyelids get nice and heavy . . .

6) Lights out. Have complicated, fantastic dreams in which a knight rescues me from some kind of dragonish creature. Thrills, long gowns with beautiful sleeves, and sword fights must be key elements here. Optional elements include a tiara, a beautiful decolletage (I’ve always wanted one), and some kind of romantic forest tryst by a waterfall (think Disney’s Robin Hood).

What plans do you all have for tonight? Anything fantastically fun in the works? Hopefully the parties responsible will make sure there is a birthday cake for my sister Erica (paging Dave, paging Dave)–happy birthday spanky-pants! You’re my favorite blonderrific sistercrantz! Hoobedy-habiddy birthday schmurfday! Harriotticus Potlotticus!

(I’m sorry I had to make you all party to the nonsense that has become the language of choice among us sisters–it will probably happen on this blog every day won’t happen again but who knows I’m full of surprises.)