A Little Inside, I Know

I had to do it. God help me. Sorry, Mr. Goulet.

Rest In Peace

I heard the sad news today of the passing of Robert Goulet. Bad commercials and funny SNL parodies aside, there was a time when Mr. Goulet would blow down a room with his powerful baritone. My favorite Goulet song was "If Ever I Would Leave You" from "Camelot." Since that tune is not available on YouTube, here's something equally powerful. From "Carousel," 1967. The brother could sing--and he will be missed.

Hallow's Eve

From all outward appearances, we might seem like respectable and pedestrian adults. But give us the occasion to behave like 12 years olds and we throw all caution to the wind. Thank God for a happening like Halloween when we have full license to don some fantastical, creative expression of silliness. I'm so all over that. Imagine my delight when the good colleagues of my office went to town today in expressing their inner child. Art Directors always come up with something unique and our directors were no exception. This charming quartet came as various varietals of the grape. You can't tell in this photo, but their hats are made of cork.

A Ninja sales assistant. A mummified project manager. And a special projects director who insists she's a fruit bat. Is that working for you?!

These two work on the same magazine, so their choice of geriatric costuming comes as no surprise. That their magazine deals with aches, pains, arthritis and osteoporosis makes even more sense.

The marketing department had to come up with something good. They did. "Cereal Killers."

Arghhhhhh! The pirate contingent represents. Give me a cutlass and I will slash ye budget to bits!!!

Medieval Splendor!

This editor described her garb as an Italian witch. Not southern Italy. Not Sicily. Northern Italian. Some gypsy blood. Interprets tarot differently than other witches. I love editors because not only do they don the costume, but they also write an interpretative history of their character.

It takes balls to wear the Batman suit. Obviously this guy works in Production.

Satan always makes an appearance. And thank God.

She described her character as "Working Mummy." Which. Was. Brilliant.

This is one of our editorial assistants whom I adore. She borrowed this get up from her son. She also carried a large rolled up faux joint which -in character-she kept toking on. Yeah, mon!!

I just love Halloween. We'll have to do this again next year.

A Woman's Perogative

After much searching, I was unable to locate the key elements to build a Brazilian 1940s songstress' ensemble for Halloween. I am disappointed at my failure, but this does give me a year to cobble together the necessary elements to be a dazzling Carmen Miranda in 2008. Realizing this failing (and this would be about the time of this past weekend), I decided to fall back on my secondary plan: A French buccaneer.

I know it's an odd choice, but I am fond of the cut of a military jacket on a woman and I have an embellished wool high necked beauty that is pure costume. I also own some velvet breeches, a ruffled shirt and cuffs, some knee high riding boots and a pashmina scarf that doubles as a waist sash. All I had to buy was a plastic sword, an eye patch and a hat which I embellished with some ostrich feathers. The only make-up needed will be a smoky eye (and I do mean EYE since the other will be covered). The odd "Merde!" and I'll be solidly in character.

Of course I'll be commuting to work with Hollaback and she'll be dressed as a bat. People always love bats, certainly more than buccaneers. And for you voyeurs, pictures to come tomorrow. Happy Halloween!

Que Syrah Syrah

On Saturday night, I had the good fortune to be included in a Syrah wine tasting (and by this I mean just Syrah or Shiraz should you live in Australia). This monumental event took place at Hollaback's new apartment in Inwood. We were all tasked to bring a bottle of said varietal for under $20. A blind tasting took place and we all scored the wines. Hollaback's realtor Elaine brought the winning bottle--it was a Pirramimma from Australia and I have to agree, it was rather spectacular. Hollaback made two lasagna dishes, both remarkable and the company was affable and easy. It was a totally charming evening. The pictures will say more than I can.

Here's our charming host, with the bottles wrapped to ensure objectivity of the voting process.

Here is the charming Jewels (left, occasionally belting show tunes) and the equally charming Declawed, who won me over immediately when she kicked her shoes off. I'm a barefooter too. She is marvelous.
The winning couple! This is Elaine (holding her award winning vintage) and her beau, Chris. He plays trumpet and performs as an orchestra member on Broadway. We dished about the divas who perform on Broadway. He agreed that Molly Ringwald sucked in "Cabaret."

Here's the tasting in progress. Note the intensity of concentration. We took our roles seriously, people!

Here's our colleague Mrs Fabulous with her nice husband, Mr. Fabulous. They are actually seriously fabulous. They named one of their sons Mathiewson after the legendary turn of the century baseball pitcher Christy Mathiewson and that garners them particularly high marks in my book.
And here's Ms. Myra with her sweet dumpling of a baby, DingoBait. With two such gorgeous mugs, can they take a bad picture? I think not! That baby is positively commercial worthy!

Such a lovely evening.

Blow By Blow

I have had a couple of late nights (for this old broad anyway) for the last two nights, but they've both been eventful and are due a reporting--and yeah, that reporting will come, most likely tomorrow. However I must document a silliness from tonight.

I went to a wine tasting for Syrah blends at Hollaback's gleaming, cool apartment in Inwood tonight. We had a lovely evening with plentiful wine and beautiful food. When I finally arrived home around 11 pm, the phone rang. It was Fang calling from San Francisco where he will be for the next week. To set the scene: I was rather fatigued and had just walked into a dark apartment with a cat yowling for cat food. It's 11 pm. Who the hell is calling me at 11 pm? I reach blindly for the telephone:

Fang: Hi, did you just get home?
Me: Yes. It was a lovely night. The butternut squash and hazelnut vegetarian lasagna kicked ass. I have leftovers, but I will probably eat them before you get home.
Fang: Do you know if the game is still on?
Interjection of wild yowling spree from the cat
Me: What game?
Fang: Uh--World Series?
Me: I don't have a freaking clue.
Fang: Was the game on at Hollaback's apartment?
Me: Was it on..the TV, you mean?
Fang: Yes.
Me: No, it was a dinner party. We weren't watching baseball.
Fang: Can you put the TV on?
Me: Now? (Note that have half of my coat off, dangling from my free arm)
Fang: Yes, put it on CBS.
Me: (switching on portable TV in kitchen) The 11 pm news is on CBS. That's what the TV channel guide says.
Fang: Check ESPN for the scores to see if the game is over.
Me: (switches channel) ESPN is showing scores from major league soccer.
Fang instructs me to try a series of channels. Nothing has baseball. At his urging, I go back to CBS. well, the game must still be on. It's only the bottom of the 6th inning. I tell him this, triumphantly.
Fang: OK, who's pitching?
Me: The Sox.
Fang: (barely patiently) WHO is pitching for the Sox?
Me: A pale white man with blond hair, a soul patch and a patchy goatee.
Fang: OK. That's good. They made a pitching change.

All I care is that the Sox are winning. The other stuff is just semantics.

Alone Again (Naturally)

I loved this tune when I was very young. I love it still, despite the fact that Irishmen have not been kind to me in my life. So why is it that I am continually drawn to them? The song is a classic, regardless.

Is This A Great City or What?

This was one of those outstanding days in New York. It always yields some quality bits and pieces:

-The downtown subway came to a dead standstill in the tunnel between Times Square and Penn Station. The problem? A passenger assault took place in the train ahead of mine. Musta been one hell of a cat fight--there were multiple injuries that required emergency attention from the police and EMT. We were held in the tunnel many minutes while train victims were pulled to the platform for treatment. Apparently some hothead got arrested as well. I do love good street theater.

-So I get to the office and notice an oddly appealing trend. Red, the assistant, is wearing a rather fetching argyle scarf. Then Norma appears, wearing a cool, funky deconstructed cardigan in a soft argyle pattern. When I hit the streets at lunchtime, I suddenly see a sea of people swathed in argyle. Not your Father's argyle; we're talking unconventional and inspiring showing of the argyle. I wish I could test out this pattern, but it'll be lost for those days I'm in Connecticut. Trust me. Dammit.

-You know what I like about being in New York? I like the way men look at women here. It's bold and startling and frank. My stalwart feminism aside, I am still a woman who enjoys obvious appreciation from men. I admit it. My Mom, she who now resides in an urn in the dining room, always said, "Better to be looked over than overlooked." I enjoy passing a man in the street and having him giving me the once over, approvingly. And why not? Today I got a few smiles, a couple of nods, one or two "hellos" and one "HELL-O!" (Right back at you, brother UPS man). Guys, this old broad thanks you. Once outside the city, natural reserve and manners prohibit this kind of in-your-face acknowledgement. If I didn't catch one of my CT male colleagues checking out my rack now and again, I'd think I was completely over the hill.

-I had a nice reunion with The Glamazon. She'd just returned from a long weekend with The Idiot (not Dostoevsky's Idiot; just her boyfriend). They'd been touring Vermont and made their usual stops. One of these places was the famous Vermont Country Store. This bastion of country living features nostalgia products (Dippity Do, Pssst dry shampoo, Jean Nate cologne, etc) and it also features other distinct items. She'd bought a product that neutralizes smells in the bathroom--you actually spray it into the toilet directly so it gives others the sensation that you don't leave smell when you crap. This miracle product is called "After You've Gone." Now, some people bring candy or maple sugar after they tour Vermont; the Glamazon brings us toilet sanitizer. She is such a doodle. See for yourself:
http://www.vermontcountrystore.com/jump.jsp?itemID=0&itemType=HOME_PAGE

-I went for the follow up appointment with my orthopedist. The VERY bad news--Dr. McDreamy is now working at the hospital full time and is no longer attending the private practice office hours. He was replaced by a milquetoast physician named Dr. Rosen. It blows. The good news? No cartilage tears were detected and surgery will not be required; just a little physical therapy before I start running again. And I can start kickboxing again on Saturday! Although (honestly) I would be willing to suffer knee replacement surgery just to have Dr. McD stroking my knee again. And other parts.

-I saw a leopard pencil skirt in the window of Express on 5th Avenue. I bought it. I just had to tell someone.

I do love this joint.

My Mother is Spinning in Her Grave

On television last night, I saw a commercial for a children's product called "Rose Petal Cottage." I normally don't pay too much attention to toy ads (owing to the fact I don't have children), but this one caught my attention. The product featured a playhouse clearly aimed at girls and it's rosy little mantra was, "Where her dreams have room to grow."

The commercial promoted the many fun things a girl-child could do in the Rose Petal Cottage: Clean house, do the laundry, bake cookies and move the furniture. Oh. Fuck. No. Girls, this is not fun. This is the drudgery you'll be complaining about 30 years from now.

Here's the cheery rhetoric featured in the ads for this progressive product:

Give your little girl a place of her own, with this fabric-covered playhouse that gives little imaginations a place to roam free. Standing just over four feet tall, this cottage has double-sided fabric walls to help little homemakers feel right at home, complete with windows, a Dutch door and chimney. When it’s time to prepare pretend meals, the durable fiberboard stove has knobs that really turn and an oven door that opens! Playing “house” in the ROSE PETAL Cottage lets your little girl build her very own home – and her imagination! – right in your living room!

I admit I played house when I was little, but thanks to the progressive influences of my mother, my scenario also suggested that I ran The New York Times between baking cupcakes. As most women I am acquainted with know--we do run our businesses with the same verve and aplomb most men are capable of doing; yet we still manage the most frivolous bullshit at home. What's up with that? Were we such clear products of our generations that we feel obligated to be the consummate homemakers in our homes yet as sharp and sometimes more accomplished than our male counterparts in the workplace? I'm thinking a short end of a stick here.

The truth is--as women we have broken through bits and pieces of that proverbial glass ceiling and well, that's a long time coming and beyond swell. But at the end of the day when we confidently pass through our front door knowing we were the catalyst that ensured the closure of a million dollar deal, the successful restructure of a business plan or the day to day management of a multi-national business empire, it's still going to fall on our successful asses to take responsibility for the care and feeding of our home inhabitants' dinner. Am I the only one that thinks that sucks?

It's bad enough that this thinking has just started to adapt this shift; that commercials promoting archaic prototypes of what a woman should be is simply a step back? It's perfectly fine to cook and clean and move furniture--I do it myself with personal pleasure on the weekend. However is it the role that should confine the breadth of a young girl's aspirations? I await the day when Hasbro trots out "Orchid Filled Corner Office." I imagine the description will read this way:

Give your little CEO a place of her own, with this designer styled office with Ultrasuede Todd Oldham lounges and Mark Rothko prints. Armed with a buff personal assistant garbed in Calvin Klein, "My Little CEO" has her own conference room, private massage table and state of the art communication network. When it’s time to prepare pretend meals, My Little CEO has a standing table at Nobu. She travels via private jet to meetings in Hong Kong, London, Brussels and Buenos Aires. She keeps a boy toy in each city and uses them to her own end. Armed with a view of Tribeca and downtown, My Little CEO's corner office is in close proximity to designer showrooms, all whom provide her free samples of their upcoming season's line.

Now that's what I'm talking about.

Reality

I like television, but specifically just for the noise. Often I'm alone but I like the sense that I'm carrying on regular activity within the confines of a bustling party. When I check into a hotel room, the television will immediately be snapped on. Will I watch it? Not at all, but I like the sensation of being surrounded by others. That's usually been the mediums value to me.

When reality television made it's first appearances in the 1990s, I eschewed this medium for its lack of creativity, cheap ploys to drag out the drama and really unappealing participants. I never became a die hard fan of the pioneers of the genre: The charms of "Survivor" and "Real World" and "Big Brother" were lost on me. However, I was induced ever so slowly into the fold with the advent of Bravo's series of shows a few years ago. The clincher? "Project Runway." I am infinitely more impressed with someones skill to customize a couture gown in two hours using burlap and some decorative moss than some mortals ability to survive on fly larvae and sleep in a hovel. We're talking priorities, people!

While the genre thrives through a plethora of ridiculous programs with ridiculous premises (and while I wait ever so impatiently for the premiere of Project Runway 4 on November 14th), occasionally I will stumble upon a reality program that promotes a modicum of interest. In this respect, last night was a banner night.

I confess to the rather unglamorous act of washing dishes while vaguely distracted by the ministrations of last night's "Dancing With the Stars." After the first forced performance, I watched the unfortunate Marie Osmond drop like a sad of potatoes to the floor. Awesome! That's entertainment. In case you live under a rock and may have missed it, check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJov26guk4k

With juices whetted, I flipped around for further foibles of bad reality. It's been awhile so I moved slowly. The genre has clearly digressed to sloppy drama. I was not disappointed. I stumbled onto "The Bachelor." Now, I've never watched this reality show, but thank God I did last night on Surreal Monday. Apparently, the bachelor had to dispatch two ladies from his coterie and one did not go quietly. She had an outright sad freak out. See for yourself...and yeah, she would be the awkward blonde, second interview after the brunette who needs a moustache wax: http://abc.go.com/primetime/bachelor/

Who else can say they went to bed satisfied having witnessed the drama of reality TV?

Welcome To My World

I gave up on my alarm clock years ago. Own a cat and you'll see why.

Scared Shitless

If the day at Lizzie Borden's house couldn't have been more frightening, my brother Marv had much more in store for me.

He loves his petty torments and little did I know that he had the very best scary moment planned.

In Boston, he and MeiMei had met a very charming couple named Tony and Sue. Tony and Sue have a passion for Halloween and haunted houses and have sunk a great deal of money into creating the ultimate seasonal fright venue. Curiously, it just happens to be located in Fall River, MA and they've invited us as guests.

We tentatively show up and immediately are ushered in. The actors (Tony and Sue employ nearly 30 of them) are elaborately garbed and in film-worthy special effect make up. I am already freaked out. This is too realistic and well, I'm scared. We walk into the first stage. There is no one with us and the actors descend on us. It is scary as hell. The actors immediately focus on me. They seem to know my name. That's it. Tony told them my name. I'm clearly fucked.

Throughout the entire journey, I am being pursued by absolutely horrifying characters (Micheal Myers and Freddie Kruger and demented clowns and creepy prisoners and zombies) all yelling my name. They chase me. They breathe down my neck. The follow me room to room calling my name. I can hear them through the walls, banging the walls and calling my name like madmen. I scream for 20 minutes straight. In fact, I lose my voice because I am screaming so much. I start to hyperventilate the last 3 minutes out of utter sheer terror. I am clutching Marv with desperate fear and MeiMei buries her head for the entire time in Marv's back like a turtle. Marv is laughing his ass off.

In the end, I had to hand it to Tony and Sue. The attention to detail of their haunted house was exemplenary. The care showed. And I have never been scared like that in my entire life. It's well worth a visit. Check it out.

http://www.factoryofterror.com/index3.html

Since We Were There

After the tour of the Borden home and since we were already in town, we decided to go and pay our respects to the family in the Fall River churchyard. The Borden plot had the entire family, including the ostracized Lizzy (below). Now that's just got to be awkward.

Nor'Easter

I headed off on Thursday morning to join Marv and MeiMei in Boston. They'd been there since Monday and had indulged in shopping, historical sightseeing and bountiful offerings of seafood. As I sped further East along the Merritt Parkway through Connecticut, the trees slowly began displaying their flashy apparel. By the time I had arrived in New England proper, the sharp displays of gold, orange, red and green were vivid beyond description.
I met Marv and MeiMei and we headed out to Salem, home of the famed 17th century witch trials. There we had breakfast at an old tea trading house, now a cafe called Red's. They are famous not for their shrimp and lobster but rather a humble flapjack filled with fresh blueberries and served with pure Vermont maple syrup.
Salem is a delightful place with small cottages on narrow streets and overgrown foliage decorating the centuries old edifices. It's a haunting place at points.
Besides a visit to Nathaniel Hawthorne's House of Seven Gables you can visit the local 17th century cemetery which features the graves of rather prominent folk (Mayflower personages, witch trial judges, Hawthorne relatives). I was rather taken with this grave which dated from 1698.
After touring the sites of Salem, which is a picturesque and charming town, we departed for the city of Fall River, Massachusetts. Marv had in his head that he wanted to see the home of Lizzie Borden.

Once there, we headed for the landmark of Miss Borden's former home. It was here in 1892 that the eldest daughter of Andrew Borden allegedly took a hatchet to her father (10 times) and to her step-mother (19 times). Arrested for the crime, she was subsequently acquitted in court. I know the song suggests 40 and 41 whacks, but let's appreciate the use of poetic license. While never solved, it seems to me that Lizzie did it. Repressed by her father, resentful of her step mother and on a double dose of PMS, the girl went to town. I totally believe she did it.

The house tour was detailed and fascinating. In the parlor (in the precise place Mr. Borden got the proverbial axe) MeiMei illustrated the exact point of impact on the unfortunate Mr. Borden (using the unfortunate Marv as an example). Mr. Borden's left eye was sliced in half during the onslaught. That's gotta hurt!
(Detail)Samantha, the tour guide at the Lizzie Borden house, accommodated my question about the position of the slain Mrs. Borden in the guest room. Not only was she compliant in her explanation, she assumed the exact physical position in the exact spot on the floor. She also allowed us all to photograph her in this prone pose. God bless the Park Service!
It's a fantastic tour with some affable hosts. When we entered a room in the attic, I confess I reeled back in discomfort. I had a suffocating feeling. "I don't feel good in here," I said aloud to no one in particular. Indeed, the room was cold and repressive and most unwelcoming. The tour guide (whom you've just seen above) agreed. "This room is always unwelcoming for people. There is lots of spirit activity." OK, I moved on but my unease never left until I left the house.

Now that's a tour. Check it out at: http://www.lizzie-borden.com/Default.aspx

Fare Thee Well

After exactly two weeks of fun, nonsense, good company and companionship, Marv and MeiMei left New York tonight heading back home to San Francisco. They arrived 14 days ago with three pieces of luggage. They left with six (evidence above). In their short tenure, we went to St. Thomas and St. John. trawled every square inch of Manhattan, saw the sites in Boston and Cambridge, ventured to Salem and Fall River and Wrentham. We had 86 degree weather and 50 degree weather; we basked in sun and rain and fog. And now they're heading home.

I miss them already.

Burn This

I have spent the last 38 hours in various parts of New England, exploring ghost haunts, historical haunts and haunted houses with my brother Marv (above, in witch character) and his wife MeiMei. We've just gotten home and I have tales to tell, but a six hour bout back to New York on the highway in storm conditions has left me utterly spent. A full report will come due tomorrow.

Follow Up

First, I am grateful to you many gracious folk for your generous good wishes for The Bunny. I appreciate your advise and kind greetings very much--thank you. She is reposing tonight in feline hospital. She has a kidney infection, a bi-product of her advancing renal failure. I have to be realistic--the old gal is 95 years old in human years (19 in cat years), so the fact that she has been healthy 99.9% of that time is pretty freaking remarkable.

My vet Dr. Plotnik (above) is a feline veterinary medicine specialist. He is a remarkable man and someone I completely entrust my cat's care to. He specializes not only in cats but in the geriatric disease perspective. And may I add--he is the only vet in Manhattan that has a practice devoted solely to feline care.

When I first moved to Manhattan, the first order of business was to locate a vet. By chance I picked up a copy of the Upper Westsider, a local free newspaper that was dedicated to the zip code 10024. I saw an ad that featured a photo of a cat. The caption read "This cat is 20 years old." The cat was Ethel. Read Ethel's story here: http://www.manhattancats.com/Ethel/ethel.htm

After reading Dr, Plotnik's story, it became apparent to me that he was the physician who would be perfect for us. It was a good call; I've never had a better vet.

It doesn't hurt that he's good looking. The fact that he has an almost six sense about diagnosis and treatment is a plus. If he leaned toward such things, he'd be a cat whisperer.

His biography is impressive:
Dr. Plotnick, a native New Yorker, is the only cat expert in the Big Apple, board-certified by both the American College of Veterinary Internal Medicine (ACVIM) and the American Board of Veterinary Practitioners (ABVP). He serves on the editorial advisory board of Veterinary Forum magazine, as the endocrinology specialist, and on the editorial board of Vetplace.net.

He also has his own column in "Cat Fancy" magazine, We're talking creme de la creme here, people.

So while I'm missing my sweet rabbit tonight, I know she's in very good hands and bound to be home soon.

La Chat

Forgive me this bye tonight people, but alas, I walked into my apartment this evening and discovered my cat was seriously ailing. This feline is she who we call The Bunny, the widowed sibling of the recently deceased Figaro.She was weak and listless, incontinent and confused. She won't eat. She won't take liquids. And she has an OCD-like pattern of wandering into her catbox without leaving a deposit. And the yowling is constant. It breaks my heart.

I already called the vet. I'll try to get in tomorrow. She's long had a case of Ronald Reagan worthy Alzheimer's disease (that would make me her Nancy). I think my old girl can bounce back given Dr. Plotnik's gentle ministrations, but it's upsetting just the same. She's far too sweet and gentle to have to assume the mantle of this nonsense, but then again, she's 95 years old in human years.

I'll keep you posted.

What Fresh Hell is This?

You must think the old chicken is getting soft, but the truth of the matter is this: I decided to spend Sunday indulging my sister-in-law's desire to shop. This woman is a world class shopper--relentless, focused, dogged, determined. She will break you like a stick for a $5 discount. She will drive 30 miles out of her way if she can get a better price on a product than is available one block from her home. It's the pursuit of the deal, it's the principle of executing a great price. It is an art. And it is an exhausting venture for those of us who are rank amateurs in comparison.

She had already earmarked multiple destinations she wanted to see in Manhattan. On the top of the list was the mother (fucker) of all shopping hell meccas--Century 21. Century 21 is a pile of retail just across from the World Trade Center site in lower Manhattan. The original edifice was destroyed on 9/11 forcing many fashionistas and quite a few stylish gay men to commute to the Century 21 in another borough (in this case Brooklyn) until the flagship store was rebuilt in 2004. When it reopened, there was much rejoicing from the masses..and the resumption of the Armageddon that is a shopping experience there.

Once you fight your way past the tourists shooting photographs of the construction site that was the former World Trade Center, you enter into the long sloping doors of this ivory hued edifice that fronts Century 21. It is a riot zone. There are stacks of handbags piled up like cords of wood. There are 20-something girls wrestling over pairs of DKNY sunglasses. There are men plowing through bins of Ralph Lauren underwear. Clothing is stacked in dense aisles so narrow that you'd have to purge your previous meal in order to pass through them. The designers are on parade, for sure, and shoppers vigorously pass over each hanger, eying labels, discount prices and their competition who are breathing over their shoulder for a chance to snap up the leftovers. It's brutal, man.

But the designer clothing and bags have got nothing on the shoe department at Century 21. This is the true guerrilla war zone.

Once you master the intricate pathway that is the insider's route to the basement of Century 21's shoe department, you are greeted with a buffet of discounted and beautiful shoes: Delman ballet flats and Stuart Weitzman stilettos; Prada pumps, Valentino sandals, Michael Kors mules. It is beyond dazzling. You have to dig through boxes relentlessly and you must be prepared to wage your most ardent battle against intruding enemies, but should you emerge victorious with a pair of Fendi golden slippers, you are truly empowered.

I'd like to say I emerged from the shoe department victorious, waving a Chanel slingback over my head but in fact I hobbled up into the light in fatigue and pain. I clutched a purchase under my arm, but I did not gloat for I knew it was heavily discounted; This was not due to my skill, but owing to the natural order of the "discount coupon." Waiting for my sister in law to meet me I realized with a dash of steely middle aged horror that I had lost my taste for retail blood. I did not want to battle women half my age for a discounted Agent Provocateur boy short hidden in a jumble bin in the lingerie department. There are reasons some people would simply rather pay full price. It's nice when you can afford to and essentially a surcharge not to have to deal with other shoppers.

When my sister in law finally appeared, even she--the Xena of Shopping--was spent. She had taken on her adversaries and they had worn her down. While she had scored some respectable buys, they were won at a hard cost: "I didn't even get to the shoe department," she said bitterly. I would consider that most fortunate.

The Beige Lining

For all the grief of that heinous day, I did score a kick ass pair of Calvin Klein spectators for the record price of $34.95. That's worth something, no?