Brassieres My Dear




Yesterday I was at the mall, as I had to meet up with Victoria for a discussion of some Secrets. Actually, my only black bra has decided to fall apart and I needed to replace it. As I don’t particularly enjoy shopping, merely going to the mall was less than pleasant. Bra shopping? Downright ugly, as far as I’m concerned.


Anyhoo – from the moment I walked in, I noticed Vicky’s Secrets had changed since the 90s when I worked there for all of one day. I was greeted by someone who actually knew the inventory, asked if she could take a quick measurement of my chest, then did just that. It was efficient and painless. (And she didn’t grope me like an old sales lady at Dillard’s in Dallas once did.) She then wrote a few notes on a slip of paper, handed it to me and sent me straight back to the fitting room, where a different sales person greeted me by name and already had a few sample bras for me to try. Which I did. And not one of them worked.


At about that point, I considered giving up. Sure – I’d only been there a few minutes, but it was all so, well, anti-fun. It was such a chore, and not a cheap one! Bras are ridiculously expensive. Which may explain why most of mine date to pre-Obama administrations and are (or have been) falling apart at the seams. But I didn’t give up. I asked for help, which was delivered by yet a third sales person. She, like the other two, was well-informed and extremely helpful. She suggested a new size, a different bra, and as I was already half-naked, I said sure. She brought a sample, I tried it and all was well.


As I left the store with my 2 new brassieres my dear (one black, one white – like a perfect cookie), each of the three gals who’d helped me said goodbye and addressed me by name. It was almost pleasant. I’m still not sure if I didn’t imagine the whole thing.


By the way – when I worked at VS, it was in Boston. I already had a full-time job (flight attendant), but it was barely covering the bills. So I thought a part-time job would help. After a single shift, I knew I couldn’t handle it. And I didn’t. I told the manager I wasn’t a fit and I never looked back. Excellent decision on my part.


As for the Dallas Dillard’s groping story, you’ll just have to wait for that one…

Boots and Pants and Boots and Pants and Boots and Pants…



If you live in America and have a television, perhaps you’ve seen the Geico commercials featuring a talking pig. My current fave of this oeuvre shows the pig dealing with his on-line insurance business then re-focusing on his vacation. He leans back in his pool-side lounge chair and starts singing along to his music, “Boots and pants and boots and pants and boots and pants and…” For some reason, that fake song sets me to giggling.


After watching Sunday night’s Oscars, I was thinking about all the clothes. (I was thinking about other aspects, too, so don’t judge.) Everyone looked so fabulous, and the big stars don’t even own those clothes. They’re wearing them – for free! I’m all for that, for them, but can’t imagine experiencing that privilege myself.


My clothes are, shall we say, well-loved. I don’t shop a lot, and haven’t bought new duds in ages. Generally, I’m okay with this. Once in a while, though, I think it would be nice to freshen up my wardrobe. I think of this when I’m fantasizing about what I’d do if I won the lottery. Honestly. And I don’t even fantasize about going crazy with the shopping. Just some regular, off-the-rack pieces. I’d be great with that.


But for now, I’m donning my same old jeans, my same old t-shirts, my same old everything. And those clothes are clean and in good repair (mostly). I’m old enough to cast aside uncomfortable clothes – thank goodness – so I can’t complain on that front. Maybe I’m not complaining at all. Maybe it’s just the nearness of Spring, luring me to rejuvenation. I don’t know.


Or maybe it’s the fact that I wore my old cowboy boots to an Oscar party on Sunday night. And when I looked at them on Monday morning, I realized I’ve had those boots for 20 years. My feet aren’t complaining though, so I’m not either.

The Day After



This was our table yesterday. It was set to make our guests feel welcomed, to feel important. To feast until we dropped.


Our table doesn’t look anything like this today. Today it is, gratefully, clean. It is also empty, save for a few leftover flowers and itty-bitty pumpkins. But the memories remain. And that’s good.


I will not be “Black Friday” shopping today. Each and every year it is my goal to avoid shopping for the entire weekend, if at all possible. I know that’s not how ever’body do. I know some of you absolutely live for getting up at the booty-crack of dawn and hitting sale after sale after sale. Hey – it ain’t my thang but I’m okay with it being yours.


I may see a movie today. Then again, I may not. I do sense a stuffing ball in my near future. And a nap. Maybe it should be called Good Friday. Those things sound pretty darned good to me.

Hello, Muffin



I am not a complete woman: my shopping gene is curdled.


Though I’m a great enabler and will help friends shop until the cows come home, I don’t enjoy shopping for myself. It isn’t fun, and I don’t see it as a recreational activity. This is the main reason I wear my clothes until they fall apart. (If shown a photo from a decade ago, I am often wearing the exact same thing then as I am while looking at the photo presently. Capiche?) It’s pitiful, I know. But that’s just the way it goes.


The exception that proves my defective gene theory is my enjoyment of shopping about once a year. This particular desire pops up without warning, and can last anywhere from a day to a week. I don’t recall it ever lasting longer than that. And just because I actually go into boutiques and department stores during those jags, there’s no guarantee I’ll buy anything. There’s also no guarantee I’ll keep something I do buy. I am big on returns, as I just don’t see the point in having unused items taking up space in my life.


Anyhoo, I’m coming off one such period and had an interesting experience during an outing. I was at a gi-normous Macy’s, in the shoe department. At this particular store, ladies are serious, y’all. They are in full hunter mode and they will take you down if you get in their way. Not only are they armed with every conceivable form of payment, they are also strong, with hyper-fast reflexes. If they see someone with something they want, they will shadow their prey, hoping the coveted item will be placed aside or ignored long enough to be poached. They’re looking at merchandise, but they’re also looking at each other. I tell you all this in order to set the scene. I want you to understand that a gal can’t wander through that shoe safari unnoticed.


So there I was, casually seeing what was on sale. As is my wont, I had left the house soon after P90X-ing, and was wearing my ratty workout clothes. I wasn’t self-conscious about this, and didn’t think anything of it. In fact, all I thought was how comfortable I was and how much I was enjoying myself. I even thought about how nice and cool it was inside the store. Super cool. In fact, it felt a little too cool. That’s when I looked down and noticed my tank top had crawled up around my abdomen and my belly was just hanging out and greeting the world. I swear, I looked like a hillbilly reject.


What can you do in a situation like that? Not much. I pulled my top down, kept on trucking through the shoes, and pretended it never happened.


I have to admit though, I wish I were the type of gal who just didn’t give a flying flip. Because y’all, it really did feel nice and cool in that store, with my top pulled up.

What a Find!



If you live in the L.A. area, you need to know about “Hotel Surplus” in Van Nuys.


I had heard of this place a while back, and finally made my way over a few months ago. What a find! Here’s the scoop, as I understand it… When hotels remodel (or shut down), Hotel Surplus buys their wares – furniture, art, lighting, mirrors, dishes, etc. – and sells it all at super-duper reduced prices. (I’ve seen sofas for as low as $125.) Some items come from, well, dumpy joints. But not everything. I’ve seen pieces from The Beverly Hills Peninsula, and not one was cheap! So yes, prices run the gamut.


And if used goods aren’t your keg of beer, know this: they have brand-spanking new stuff, too! Let’s say a furniture manufacturer cranks out a new line of sofas. Only the dye lot for the fabric didn’t turn out to be the exact shade of green they’d been going for. Hotel Surplus will buy up that line and discount it heavily. And I do mean major, y’all.


Mister and I have gotten a couple of new things there, and I just went back to find some old lamps. I was successful, and will be updating those pieces very, very soon. When I need something, this place is now on my go-to circuit. I’m so happy I finally checked it out.


If you’re local, you should stop by. It’s so worth it!

La-La Land Shopping



One of the amazing perks of living in Los Angeles is the availability of goods from shows, movies and studios.


Want some clothes from a beloved show? Try “It’s a Wrap.” This shop (with 2 locations) sells clothing, shoes, jewelry and accessories from about a jillion shows and movies. If a studio is cleaning house, their wearable items may end up here as well. One can score super-cheap items, or one can shop their couture collection for major beans. Personally, I still have a swimsuit cover-up from years ago. Its origins? “Melrose Place.” I also have a leather jacket from the movie, “The House Bunny.” I’ve never seen the movie, but I do love the jacket.


If you’re looking for household items, try “Reel Appeal.” (I don’t think they have a website.) This warehouse (!) is loaded to the ceiling with furniture (every conceivable quality and style), housewares, art and just about everything else imaginable – all of it from shows and films. Right now, they’re selling off mucho stuff from “Desperate Housewives.” And it’s moving fast, y’all. If you’re in L.A. and interested, let me know and I’ll tell you how to get there.


As for my own score, I got a piece of “One Live to Live” memorabilia, as shown above. I’m super-fond of it already. It reminds me of being a kid and watching the show. Though I haven’t watched a soap opera in years, I appreciate having used to. And this sign will serve as a cool reminder of memories from a made-up place – Llanview, PA. I still recall “Viki” and her split-personality persona, “Niki.” And there was the time “Viki” was taken aboard a spaceship by aliens, or was that an out-of-body-experience? Who cares! Good times…