Category Archives for "Shopping"

Weekend regurgitation: Pier 1 and unprotected sex

Even though I did quite a bit of online shopping this past week and didn’t feel compelled to get up and leave my house at an ungodly holy shit o’clock on Black Friday, I did eventually leave it that day and did my fair share to boost the American economy in person. In fact, I boosted it all day. I liked boosting it so much, I pretty much did the same thing all day on Saturday. I’m very patriotic that way.

Surprisingly enough, I did not witness any brawls, trampling, gouging, pushing, shoving or smackdowns at the mall on Friday and the only budging I encountered was notable only for its absence. Specifically, the driver’s seat in the Durango stubbornly refused to budge forward and wouldn’t listen to me, no matter how loud I yelled at it. In fact, at one point, I was sorely tempted to swab under the Durango’s hood for a DNA sample and check to see if its gas cap resembled a belly button that might once have been connected to an umbilical cord that my womb grew when I wasn’t looking.

I wanted to take the Durango because I knew it could haul a good chunk of the economy in it but my 6’2″ husband had driven it last and the driver’s seat was pushed so far back from the steering wheel that it was almost crowning out the rear bumper and seeing as how I am 5’2″ with legs shorter than a basset hound’s, I couldn’t reach the pedals and pretty soon, I was running late to pick up my friend Heather and I was all sweaty and all frustrated and all HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO CELEBRATE JESUS’ BIRTHDAY IN TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS IF I CAN’T USE MY AFTERNOON DOORBUSTER COUPONS?

I leave you with the post I wrote last year about Pier 1, my all-time favorite store to frequent during the holidays. And before you get any ideas, I’m not paid to speak for them. But I bet if they read this post, they’d be fixing that oversight right darn quick. And then promptly punching themselves in the throat after they got to the part about trees having orgies.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

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I think the North Pole and Pier I were separated at birth

(originally published on November 27, 2009)

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There are few places on this earth which make me hyperventilate and literally quiver with excitement at the mere thought of visiting:

  1. San Francisco
  2. New York City
  3. My bathroom
  4. Anderson Cooper’s lap
  5. Pier 1

I’ve been fortunate enough to visit both #1 and #2 this year which was so much damn fun, I can’t even begin to tell you. And thanks to the rotting, battered, decrepit piece of crap that is my personal waste management system, I’ve practically moved into #3 where I’ve done so much #1 and #2 of a totally different sort, which was so not fun, I can’t even begin to tell you that either.

Unless you want me to? Because I’ve got nothing to blog about this week so … maybe?

Let me know.

As for #4, I’m still working on it. Stupid restraining orders.

This past weekend, I visited #5. I adore Pier 1. Adore it. I’d move in there if I didn’t think my family would find me in less than thirty minutes and drag me away to make them dinner. How is it that they have an uncanny ability to hunt me down, no matter how far away I’ve run? I’m beginning to wonder if I came equipped with GPS. If and when I ever meet The Big Guy, this is definitely going to be included on my list of discussion topics called WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, right after ultra low rise jeans, fat free cheese and Jon Gosselin.

I’ve had my eye on this at Pier 1 for awhile now. I have no idea what I’d do with it. I just like it. It’s funky and colorful and different.

Come to think of it, those are the three criteria guaranteed to send Nate hurtling toward psychosis.

Not that that’s any incentive, mind you!

At least, not consciously.

Subconsciously? That’s possibly a definite maybe.

I like this one too, for pretty much the same reasons.

And it’s bigger!

Go big or go home, if you ask me!

No one ever asks me.

I’d like that one even better if it were sitting on this rug.  I can see both the dresser and this rug in my dining room. Quite clearly, in fact, because there’s nothing else in my dining room to obscure my view, like a table or chairs. But that’s OK because I’d be perfectly content to simply stand on this rug and admire that dresser without any additional distractions. Besides, if I had a table and chairs in there, people might sit down and actually expect me to feed them.

I’ve got enough of that nonsense going on in the kitchen. No need to let it spread to the rest of the house, like some hideous, infectious disease from which there is no recovery.

But what I LOVE LOVE LOVE the most about Pier 1 is their holiday decor!

Every year, I look forward to their Christmas trees.

They are literally STUFFED with happy.

Nate doesn’t like them because they’re gaudy and don’t look like trees. In fact, he doesn’t even believe there’s an actual tree under there. He thinks the North Pole had an orgy with Las Vegas and this here is their bastard spawn.

I love the man, but he’s in serious need of a Ho Ho Ho adjustment.

It’s the absolute excess of these trees that I love! The sheer overkill. The utter, enormous, exorbitant extravagance of them!

For the record, I’m all for unprotected sex between consenting hedonistic geographical regions.

And adjectives that start with vowels.

I want these ornaments.

And these.

I’m on the fence with the owls, though. They don’t look very Christmas-y to me. Then again, I have a thing about owls. Did you know that my mom used to collect owls? And that I bought her this really pretty owl sculpture for her birthday one year, when I was young and had no taste? And that I caught her trying to sell it at a garage sale over fifteen years ago? And that for the past fifteen years, I’ve never let her forget that she tried to sell a symbol of my love for $1.00 or best offer?

I told this little story to the sales clerk and she looked at me funny and then backed away. Slowly.

Obviously, she has no idea what I went through.

These high heeled stockings remind me of my younger, carefree days. Stick them on some shapely legs under a shorty short black leather mini skirt, take a picture and you’ve got yourself a photographic memoir of my ill spent youth.

I miss the eighties.

I love this guy. He reminds me of my vertebrae, only taller. And more festive.

Next time I go to Pier 1, I’m going to take out a loan and buy one of those trees. And maybe I’ll get lucky and score a few of those stockings too. And after I pester Nate to put the tree up in our living room, maybe I’ll try those stockings on before hanging them on the mantle. Who knows? Maybe Nate will get lucky himself and score something as well.

And finally get his Ho Ho Ho adjustment after all.

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Another multiple choice quickie! The “I Am Not A Whore” edition. Or, the “Do Not Blog With Allergies” edition.

Ready? Set! Here we go:

The above photo is evidence of which of the following:

(1) That I am a hair product whore.

To clarify … I’m a professional hair product whore. Better yet, I’m a professional hair salon product whore.

What I mean to say is … I’m a whore for professional hair salon products, not a professional whore.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

Just so we’re clear … I’m not dissing professional whores. Or amateur ones either! We all have to start somewhere, right?

And by we, I mean “we as a people” not “we” as in you and me because I’m not a professional whore and you probably aren’t either.

Unless you are? In which case, go you! Must be nice to have people spend money on you!

So to clarify:  (a) I am not a professional whore; (b) I am a professional hair salon product whore; (c) I’m not dissing whores; (d) I’m not calling you a whore unless you want me to because you really are one in which case, you go whore! Way to represent! And finally, (e) I think it’s nice that people spend money on whores.

(2)  That when it comes to hair product, I obviously cannot make up my mind. Actually, when it comes to anything, really, although you can’t really tell that from this photo. Can you? Regardless, I am indecisive. Or wishy-washy. Unsure? Ambivalent? No, it’s indecisive. Definitely indecisive. Wait! Maybe vacillating?

(3) That I am gullible, susceptible, or otherwise easily influenced, persuaded, convinced or whatever synonym describes a beauty advertiser’s wet dream. In a nutshell, it if were made to smell like lemon drops and packaged in something shiny and neatly stacked on the shelves of ULTA or Sephora, I would buy my own poo, even if I didn’t have a coupon and it wasn’t on sale.

(4) Is anyone still reading this?

(5) If you made it this far, I’m sorry I called you a whore. Even though I don’t think I did, really? But I apologize, nevertheless. Because I’m nice like that. You know what else would be nice? If we lived in a world where we could call each other whore and not be insulted. I mean, whores are people too and they need awesome looking hair, just like the rest of us. In fact, they probably need it more than us, when you think about it. Who wants a whore with crappy hair? And, of course, it goes without saying that by “us,” I mean those of us who are not whores. Why do people say “it goes without saying” and then proceed to say whatever is supposed to go without saying?

(6) That I should not blog after taking an antihistamine.

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I was almost going to tell you a story of how Nate enlisted the help of the Buffalo Bills and ginormous boulder holders to kill me dead

When I sat down at my computer today, I had every intention of writing a really fascinating post, a fable of sorts. I was going to set the scene at a bustling Target one Saturday morning and follow it up with multiple paragraphs of character development and an exciting plot filled with one man’s version of Internet porn, some lingerie and a touch of negligent homicide. It was going to be a story wrought with moral turpitude, conflict, mental cruelty and angst, culminating in an emotionally gut wrenching climax of lessons learned.

The story was going to be centered around a man hopping online without supervision *again* and buying a $140.00 juicer for his family which, admittedly, doesn’t sound like a very compelling tale but HOLD ON TO YOUR KNICKERS, PEOPLE because I was going to add in little interesting details like … oh, I don’t know … maybe the man inadvertently revealing this purchase to his wife whilst she was perusing the women’s underwear department of Target?

And then maybe the wife had flashbacks to $80 Chia Pets and gasped so hard that she nearly swallowed her adenoids while screaming BUT NO ONE IN OUR FAMILY EVEN DRINKS JUICE.

And then maybe the man slowly backed away from his wife because her left eye was starting to twitch and her head was starting to spin counter clockwise and she was starting to speak in tongues.

And then maybe the man narrowly escaped a 100% cotton 8-pair jumbo pack enema by grabbing his daughter’s hand and dragging her away to the pet department under the guise of getting their puppy some new chew toys because it turns out their puppy is really a seven pound furry piranha in disguise.

And then maybe the daughter returned to the wife at a full speed run twenty minutes later, waving what appeared to be an outfit for her American Girl doll which would have been really weird because it had been forever since the daughter had played tattoo parlor with a permanent marker on that particular $100 Christmas gift but whatever, there were more pressing issues at hand, such as determining the difference between hipsters and bikinis, and theorizing why people choose to wear thongs because don’t we as a people spend enough time trying to yank our undies out of our fanny cleavage as it is? And by the way, HOLY SHIT, IS THAT A CHRISTMAS TREE IN ELECRONICS?

And then maybe it turned out that what the daughter was hysterically waving in the air was not, in fact, an outfit for a grossly overpriced doll but rather a miniature Buffalo Bills t-shirt, sized extra-small and made specifically for seven pound incognito shih-poo piranha puppies and then the wife who, having previously made it crystal clear to her family that dressing up any animals in clothing is seventy-two different kinds of WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, decided that it was high time to sit the man down for a long overdue Come To Jesus talk even if it had to take place in the midst of granny panties but before she could tackle him to the floor and hogtie him with his colon, she heard her daughter excitedly exclaim IT WAS ONLY TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS, MOM! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?

And then maybe the wife couldn’t see straight anymore for all the blood gushing around her brain which caused her head to spin right off her body and ricochet around the racks of bras and thongs, getting snagged on a 44DDD which acted like a slingshot, launching her bloody head right back at her headless body like some heat seeking missile, causing it to slam into her legs, shattering her shins and dropping her to the ground where she lay unconscious and left to wonder which of these egregious offenses would ultimately do her in: the shock of seeing the $140 juicer appear on their bank statement and doorstep, the two inches of dust that will have inevitably collected on the unopened box three months after delivery, the disembodied, bloody head that took out her kneecaps, her puppy prancing around as a mascot for a football team who loses season after season out of sheer habit, the obscenely premature appearance of the elves staring down at her from the shelf above, or the fact that despite her own preaching, she would finally be caught dead while wearing torn and stained period panties, they being the only underwear she owned to date, thus her browsing of the Fruit of the Looms in a bustling Target on a Saturday morning in the first place.

I was even going to post a picture and everything.

But after several minutes of staring at a blank screen, I ultimately wound up chucking the whole story idea.

I just couldn’t find the right words.

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Shopping with short octogenarians

Zoe: Why is Yia Yia standing out in the parking lot?

Me: She’s reserving a parking space for Aunt VeVe.

*pause*

Zoe: Where’s Aunt VeVe?

Me: She’s driving around the parking lot, trying to find a parking space.

*pause*

Helena: Is she wondering where Yia Yia is?

Me: One can only hope.

*pause*

Helena: I see Aunt VeVe! Here she comes!

*waves and jumps up and down*

Zoe: Aaaaaaaand there she goes.

*long pause*

Helena: Does Aunt VeVe even know what Yia Yia is doing?

Me: No one knows what Yia Yia is doing, honey.

Helena: Is that why everyone is honking at her and telling her to get out of the way?

Me: Yes.

*long pause*

Zoe: You kinda gotta admire Yia Yia. She won’t budge an inch.

Me: My entire childhood is on display in the Marshalls’ parking lot. And you guys wonder why I’m tense.

*pause*

Helena: There’s Aunt VeVe again!

*waves and jumps up and down*

Zoe: Aaaaaaaand there she goes.

*pause*

Zoe: I’ve never seen Yia Yia wave her arms like that before.

*pause*

Zoe: It’s almost like she’s dancing.

Me: What are you doing?

Zoe: Updating Facebook. This is hysterical.

Helena: Can I take a picture too?

Me: No. I do not want photographic evidence of my lunatic family on Facebook.

Zoe: Too late.

Helena: Here she comes again! AUNT VEVE! AUNT VEVE!

*waves and jumps up and down*

Zoe: Aaaaaaand there she goes.

Helena: Wow, did you see that? Yia Yia almost ran.

*mouth agape*

Helena: Oh my gosh! What is that noise?

Me: If memory serves, that is either a hyena giving birth or Yia Yia yelling.

Helena: Who is she yelling at?

Me: Aunt VeVe. And probably God.

Helena: But Aunt VeVe can’t hear her. She can’t hear anyone.

Me: Yia Yia doesn’t care about details.

*pause*

Zoe: Uh oh.  It’s almost noon.

Helena: Uh oh.

Me: Don’t worry. We have at least an hour and a half before Aunt VeVe starts panicking about rush hour traffic and we have to go home.

*pause*

Zoe: Should we get Yia Yia a chair or something?

Me: She wouldn’t use it. That would be sign of weakness.

Helena: There’s Aunt VeVe again! How come she can’t see Yia Yia?

Me: Because she can’t see over the steering wheel.

Zoe: Aaaaaaaand there she goes.

*pause*

Helena: Too bad we don’t have popcorn.

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STUFF I LOVE: My Brighton watch. It’s pretty and it covers up the spot where aliens branded me

Remember when I was going to go all blogstar on you and show some initiative by writing an ongoing series called Stuff I Love? Where I was going to periodically post about things I adore, things that I neither gave birth to nor married? And I was going to compile the posts into one ginormous collection that could be searched and cross referenced at will? And it was going to be the very definition of AWESOME?

Me neither.

I wrote one post about aliens and another about epiphanies and then suddenly the laundry piled up, Oliver pooped everywhere, the kids fought incessantly, I had to find Helena a pioneer costume and teach Zoe how to drive, I had to find something other than cornstarch to serve for dinner, my aunt fell and then yelled at me because I tattled on her to my parents and then finally, Lost chewed up my cerebral cortex and hocked a loogie with it onto my ambition and before I knew it, three months went by and the whole concept of Stuff I Love fell by the wayside, lonely and neglected. It would occasionally wake me up at 2:00 a.m., and try to get frisky with my brain but my brain was all OH MY GOD, SERIOUSLY? RIGHT NOW? YOU WANT TO DO IT RIGHT NOW? I’M EXHAUSTED. FINE. KEEP IT SIMPLE, NOTHING FANCY. AND HURRY UP.

So moving forward, I’m going to try to pay a little more attention to Stuff I Love in hopes that it will stop waking me up in the middle of the night for some nookie and let me get a decent night’s sleep.

This is my new watch:

It’s a bangle watch by Brighton and before I say anything more, let me just clarify that I am not a spokesperson for Brighton, no one compensated me for this post because no one pays me to say anything nice about anything and this is probably why I don’t say many nice things. SEE, NATE? IT’S NOT MY FAULT.

This watch is heavy and chunky with a seamless magnetic clasp, giving it the illusion of a traditional bangle. I adore this watch. Sometimes I appreciate it even more than I do Nate because it will tell me the time whenever I ask it to without prefacing its response with a distracted “Wha? Hang on a sec … OK, now … wait … hold on … d’you need something?” and some frantic scrolling on a crackberry.

This watch was my Christmas gift from Nate although, to be honest, it didn’t look like this when I opened it Christmas morning. On Christmas morning, it looked more like a delicate gold-tone bracelet watch with a traditional jewelry clap and mother-of-pearl face peppered with little diamonds, and it came in a box emblazoned with the name “Citizens.” That particular watch was a very glamorous, lovely watch for a very glamorous, lovely woman somewhere but it didn’t exactly suit the lifestyle of the more practical woman to whom it was gifted, the woman who spent her days banging out useless blog dribble on a computer and waging wars against hard water stains and underarm razor stubble and morons who were genetically incapable of parking between the yellow lines. And, more importantly, it wasn’t a bangle watch.

So I returned Nate’s beautiful watch and went in search of what turned out to be this one, all with Nate’s blessing which was cloaked in an exasperated NO ONE MAKES REAL BANGLE WATCHES ANYMORE! IF YOU WANT ONE, YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO DRIVE TO THE END OF THE STREET AND TAKE A LEFT AT THE NINETIES. BRING ME BACK SOME PARACHUTE PANTS.

Admittedly, it’s substantial size and weight dwarfs my freakishly scrawny and bony wrist but it’s a small price to pay for a stylish, sturdy watch that has no annoying chain that will snag on my sweaters and bungee jump to the pavement. And chances are also unlikely that it will stow away on a sleeve and enjoy a ride through the permanent press cycle anytime soon. And I honestly think I could bonk a would-be attacker on the head with it and stun him long enough to kick his balls into neighboring Pennsylvania.

And bonus! When I push it up my arm, it can completely obscure the weird lumpy bump that has copped a squat on my forearm for almost twenty years. I just keep repeating IT’S NOT A TUMOR over and over to myself and it makes me feel better, but only if I do it a là Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop so it comes out sounding more like IT’S NOT A TOOMAH! Otherwise, it doesn’t work and I wind up freaking out about the whole lumpy bump thing, envisioning all sorts of scenarios including, but not limited to, aliens inserting a monitoring device under my skin to observe how the female member of the species manages to get any rest while sleeping next to her mate who is single- handedly responsible for keeping the alien pods up at night with his snoring.

You can find Brighton accessories here. I love most of their stuff and when it comes to decorating my body, they’re my go-to place for lumpy bump cover-ups. If they ever come out with an industrial strength bra, I’ll be golden.

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