Shopping frenzy

Maverick called me at the office to say he was taking away my credit card. Apparently, he said, I don’t know how to control myself when it comes to shopping. As I pleaded and explained and poorly attempted to keep control of my plastic, in the back of my mind, I know he can be right, sometimes.

Not too long ago, Starr and I were doing some out-of-town shopping. We hit a stretch of unique shops and the two of us started salivating. My saliva was caused by hunger. It was mid-afternoon and neither of us had anything to eat all day, but Starr was drooling over the clothes she saw displayed in the window.

After promising her that the stores would remain open afterwards, we grabbed a bite to eat and drank a bottle of champagne over lunch. Feeling warm and bubbly from the cold bubbly, we hit the boutiques.

We looked like two kids in a candy store. We practically ransacked the first shop, throwing things around and stock piling clothes in the dressing room. Tops and skirts and dresses flew out of the curtain while my poor friend, Jenny, carefully hung up the discarded clothes for us. While Starr paid for her finds, I scoured the jewelry counter and strung several necklaces around my wrist and tossed them on the checkout counter for a last-minute photo finish of a clothes horse-race.

And that was the first shop.

By the third or forth…or maybe the fifth or sixth boutique…I think I lost count….I realized I also had lost my head. I walked into this store, still rearing to go on the high that everything was on sale, everything was in my size and everything looked great. (And how often do the stars align that perfectly?)

I stood over a pile of beautiful 50% off scarves and was trying to pick out one or two to buy. But I had found six that all looked great and agonized over which ones to put down. So I moved over to the sweater table and picked up three or four cute things. Next, I found another necklace, so I made my way over to the cashier but couldn’t bypass the shoe section and saw my weakness…crystal studded flip flops and found several pairs I wanted…I looked at all the stuff in my hand and started to hyperventilate.

I realized I wanted everything in the store, right now. I’d hit a bonanza. A magic treasure chest filled with beautiful clothes, and shoes, and accessories just for me. I looked down at the packages I was carrying…I added up what I had spent already (justifying to myself I had just bought my own birthday present, Mother’s Day and Hanukkah presents at this rate and it was only March). My pulse was racing and I started hyperventilating.

I realized I was in a full-fledged shopping frenzy and had to walk myself right out of the store to catch my breath. As I stood outside in the cold air, my breathing finally slowed and my blood pressure returned to normal. Jenny, not knowing anything was wrong, came outside to comment that she had never seen two girls do as much damage as Starr and I had. In two hours, she said, we’d spent what she’d spend in a year on clothes. She said she was fascinated by us. But I felt disgusted and ashamed.

I didn’t spend a dime afterwards that day. I did however, continue to enjoy shopping vicariously through Starr, who even managed to find something fabulous at an airport boutique on the way back into town. I’ve been trying to be better since then and not buy whatever strikes my fancy when I see it. It’s hard still sometimes, especially when I see cute $5 t-shirts for the girls at Target. Okay, I admit, I still get them the cute $5 t-shirts when I see them at Target. Now, I just try to pick out one or two instead of one of every kind.

With all the recession talk, I know I should tighten my belt and do better with less. I can cut back on another pair of flip flops or another pair of earrings for a while. I’m good with less shopping for now, just as long as Maverick doesn’t ask me to cut out my daily Starbucks. I have a feeling that request is coming soon too. Especially since we just got a new espresso maker.

What should I wear?

I’m going to a bar mitzvah. What should I wear?
I’m going to Santa Fe. What should I wear?
I’m going to a BBQ. What should I wear?
I’m going bar-hopping for Friday night happy hour. What should I wear?
I’m going dancing on a Saturday night. What should I wear?
My house is burning and I need to leave immediately. What should I wear?

It seems like the “What should I wear” game is one of the most overplayed, exhausting, and intoxicatingly addicting games my friends and I participate in. Every event seems to require at least one of us asking what we should wear. Or what are you wearing? Is jeans okay for a Friday night? Do we have to get dressed up for dinner in at your house? Is sweats acceptable on a Sunday afternoon? Do I have to come to your pool party wearing an actual swimsuit?

When I was a kid, I didn’t care what I wore. As long as it was comfortable. I probably took that mantra to an extreme, and actually got into trouble for wearing my pajamas to school. But it was so much easier then than it seems to be now. Even with a full closet of clothes, I’m in a constant struggle to find the right thing to wear.

Styles change. My size changes. My tastes change. Styles change again. My closet is an ever-evolving rotating door of clothes that comes and goes before I’ve had the chance to get my wear out of any particular item. The absolutely right-now perfect top doesn’t seem to hold up two months from now. The pink cargos went the way of pink flamingos in our front yard. The overalls I loved so much have been donated after eight years of hoping to make a comeback. It’s very frustrating how often fashion changes ever-so-slightly that last year’s version looks so much like this year’s, but not enough to pull it off. I’d rather just chuck it than worry about who’s noticed that I’m wearing “so last years”. And honestly, I care about this stuff as much as the average girl yet it still eats me up.

Plus, I never can seem to get ahead of the fashion and actually have the right thing to wear, so I’m constantly at the mall looking for perfection. Of course, I never find it when I’m looking for it. Only when I’m in a rush or shopping for a gift for someone else.

I try not to kill myself with keeping up with the styles and stick to my tried-and-true favorites. Most of my clothes are my staple favorites that you’ve probably seen me wear a thousand times. They’re like the PJs of my childhood. Three kinds of items are my standard-issue uniform. I can wear strikingly similar black or white t-shirts and never get tired of wearing them. I have twenty variations of the same t-shirt shirt: v-neck, deep v-neck, scoop neck, boat neck, three-quarter sleeve, long sleeve, gathered, cap sleeve…. I should buy an additional color or two when I refresh the uniforms but I wind up moving those to the back of the closet and focusing on my favorites.

I also have my standard issue sweats. They’re shoved in a drawer with eight other pairs, but I always seem to reach for the same gray pair over and over. Now they have a hole right below the knee, thanks to Casey. But instead of tossing them, I’ve decided to roll them up, hip-hop style.

Flip flops round out my third standard-issue uniform. Pink, white, black, red and every color in between. I have flips with rhinestones and flops with bows. I have crystal ones and stone ones and plain ones and denim ones and high heels and low heels and some I have multiple pairs of the same kind. I have a whole basket of flip flops and can wear a pair every day for over a month with out duplication.

What's your standard issue uniform?

thank god it's monday because my weekend was exhausting!

Why is it that on the weekends that I don' t have any plans "scheduled" I seem to be busier than ever? After a crazy-ridiculous week of work and deadlines and spreadsheets and meetings, I was looking forward to a little R & R. No plans except for a kids birthday party on Sunday, no sweat. I thought I'd have a leisurely Saturday, go for my morning run, cook some breakfast, enjoy the cool weather, spend time with the kids...ya know, a lot of nothing on a Saturday. Sunday, I anticipated reading the newspaper, enjoying bagels delivered by my husband, with Starbucks of course, a quick jaunt to the birthday party and time to plan a delicious, leisurely Sunday night family dinner.

What happened exactly was that I did all of that and fifty-five zillion other things in between. Six loads of laundry, wipe down the baseboards, help Maverick clean the garage, run errands, prepare sixteen meals, organize the girls' closets, make lists of lists of things I need to get done, and a host of other essential things that were not scheduled on the initial agenda.


I may be a fanatic for a clean glass kitchen table, but I do not exaggerate by telling you I wiped that table down thirty-two times in one weekend. Once after an art project, again after breakfast, another time after snack, again after lunch and afternoon snack, after dinner, after dessert later and finally again after the girls were tucked away in their beds and I saw smudges I missed the first twenty times. Multiply that by two and a half days of the weekend and that quickly adds up to thirty-two.

Then there's the shoes that need to be picked up infinitely and returned to their proper place. I'm always amazed by how four people can create a pile of shoes to fit an army by the end of each day. I also have to put away eight little baggies of unfinished snacks, two dishwasher loads, a host of mail that needs to be scanned, sorted and tossed. Backpacks to be emptied and then filled again within forty-eight hours, homework to be filed and homework to start. Playdates, babysitters and carpooling arrangements to be made. Tivo'ed shows to be watched, scattered magazines to be read and recycled. Pictures to be taken, enhanced, printed, emailed and scrapbooked.

Not to mention the list of "weekend projects" that need to be executed...things that can't happen during the waking work week: windows to be washed, patios to be pressure cleaned; garages to be organized; whole closets that need to be organized, drawers that need to be cleaned, filing that needs to be filed.

And of course, in between all this, I must find time to hang out in the driveway so the kids can get fresh air and play with their friends because we live in a sick world and I can't let them out on their own like I was allowed at their age.

It's no wonder I'm so pooped when it's time to go back to work on Monday.

Vacation packing hell

I’m taking a ten-day vacation to an island far, far away. Maverick and I are going to celebrate our ten year anniversary (no, we didn’t intentionally plan the 10 years/10 day thing but I like that romantic idea.)

I can't wait to go. The only thing holding back my enthusiasm is all the planning that goes into packing my suitcase. Why, women, why do we complicate such things?

When Maverick packs, it's a last minute affair. For men, it's never more complicated than brown shoes, black shoes, sneakers, flip flops...I realize as I write this that Maverick may care more about his shoes than the typical man...shorts, t-shirts, dress shirts, jeans, boxers, done. It takes him about 15 minutes and half of the stuff comes right out of the dry cleaning bags into his suitcase. He's become such an expert packer that over the years, I've watched him downsize his suitcase so that any trip he goes on for almost any length of time, all his clothes can fit into one tiny 21" suitcase.

For me, I need at least a 26", plus a shoe bag, plus a carry-on. And this is for a weekend excursion. How the hell will I manage 10 days with such little luggage? I mean, could I possibly not take every coordinating pair of shoes that goes with each carefully selected outfit? Should I try to downsize the "extra" outfits, bikinis, undies, bras, work out clothes, cover ups, shorts, tanks, socks, books, lotions and magazines that I originally planned to pack as back-ups in the event that I decide not to wear any of my planned outfits?

Consider the fact that I have to pack the outfits for many different occasions while on vacation such as what wear to breakfast. Then I need beach wear, sightseeing wear, lounge wear for between the beach and sightseeing, work out clothes, and dinner wear, and after-dinner ware ;) That's six outfits per day times eight full days. Not to mention the two days of traveling to Hawaii and back, which require the proper airplane wear--you know, something that travels well, is comfortable yet stylish, keeps me warm but isn't too hot and makes me look fabulous when I hop off the jet, spritz my face with Evian (I'm dying to do that like the Hollywood stars!) and saunter on over to the Four Seasons. Really. I just can't walk into the Four Seasons looking jet-lagged and puffy.

Which reminds me that I also have to consider what to carry on the plane. I'll need an overnight bag for which to stow my books (both novel and Sudoku puzzles); two magazines (one frivolous fashion rag and one "serious" reading of Time or Fast Company); lip glosses in several shades (because I never know what sort of lip-gloss color mood I'm in until the moment strikes me); tic tacs & gum (again, one can never be sure what the momentary preference will be); pen & pencil (can't journal in pencil and can't Suduko in pen), journal; laptop; camera; makeup bag; snacks; water; socks; hoodie; neck roll; travel guides; sunglasses; I-pod...ugh, my shoulder is hurting just thinking of all the stuff I have to carry!

So I started a packing list that will never get quite done. Instead, I'll stand in my closet for hours the night before the flight agonizing over what to bring and what not to bring. I'll wish I could just Fed Ex my closet. I'll try on several combinations and drive Maverick nuts asking "which do you like better?" then I'll get aggrevated when he doesn't chose the one I was secretly hoping he'd chose. My bedroom will be in total chaos as I painstakingly pack. My bathroom and jewelry drawers will look as if they've been ransacked by a burglar. (Because of course, aside of all the coordinating shoes, I'll need six pairs of practically identical but ever-so-slightly-different earrings and necklaces to go with the outfits.)

By the time I go to bed, I'll be totally exhausted and irritable. As I close my eyes and try to rest, I'll remember that I had forgotten to buy something I desperately wanted for the trip.

Then I'll wake up early to recheck whatever decisions I made the night before. I'll unpack a few things and if there's an inch of space left in the suitcase, I'll shove in another tank, another bikini, another pair of earrings.

If you're exhausted reading this, then you can imagine how I feel after this process. By the time I zip and lock the last bag and get into the car to make our way to the airport, I'll be completely ready for a vacation. I can't wait. I just wish going on a vacation didn't require so much work.

Sentimental junk

Every girlfriend holds on to things long past its expiration date. From a favorite pair of skinny jeans tucked away until it fits another day to that tube of pink lipstick we can’t stop wearing, sometimes it’s just so hard to say goodbye.

I’ve been chastised for this infamous “Brown Swimsuit” I used to love. It was the perfect combination—a well-fitted bottom that hid all that needed to be covered down below and an equally well-fitted top that accentuated the sisters. Apparently, it was well past its expiration date. Turned sour, really. I haven’t worn that swimsuit in more than a full year, but I’m still harassed to burn it. It’s the (I really liked it!)

The funny part is that I save not only the things I love but also the stuff that doesn’t make sense to keep. And I’m not sure why I’m such packrat, but most girls are. I’ve been known to stash a few things away in a drawer, waiting patiently to be resurrected.

Okay maybe a lot of things.

I have a drawer (or few) crammed with lip glosses, tampons, a recipe torn from a magazine, a notepad, pens in a rainbow of colors, Astroglide, several tubes of trial-sized lotions, a crayon, an appointment card from 2005, six ponytail holders, and some kids’ jewelry. Then there’s an overflowing drawer stuffed with belts and neck scarves (did anyone wear them outside of Dallas?); old costume jewelry that may come back in style in another decade or two, a scrap paper for a playdate with a mother I can’t remember, a dog collar (?), an exercise video, sparkly hair clips, at least a dozen gel inserts for my bras and oh, yeah, more tampons! (Does everyone stash them as strategically as I do around their bedrooms?) Not to mention the “Pocketbook Graveyard” cabinets either. I won’t even get into that!

Some items I’ve saved are ridiculous; it’s the lazy Tracy that forces me to save things such as the half-used tube of airline-sized toothpaste. For the flight I may take in the future, I’ll think “there’s no sense in tossing it.” Instead, I’ll stash away on my desk. It never made it back in the bathroom since the last trip. It’s here on my desk because when I put it there (laziness, remember?), I figured the next time I’d need it, I wouldn’t forget it because I so obviously left it on my desk. Of course, this was not the tube of toothpaste I brought on my last trip, because it got buried amongst all the other crap on my desk. (So it obviously wasn’t obvious!)

Some of the “junk” is worth saving because of its sentimental value. Such as the first Valentine my husband wrote or my kid’s first birthday card. Unfortunately, somewhere along the road of sentimentality, I swung far to the left of center and transformed into a pack rat. I started hording. It’s not just the cards from my husband that I’ve saved. Actually, it’s every card anyone has ever sent to me since my mid-twenties. (And that was quite awhile ago!) Yes, you heard me right. If you are my friend and have ever sent me a birthday card, invitation, birth announcement, holiday photo, postcard, get well card, flower arrangement, gift through the internet, or even a thank you note, I have it cataloged away for safekeeping.

My friend Indie is totally on board with this concept. She just spent an entire day, a completely kid-free Saturday (well, okay, she doesn’t have kids yet), a whole afternoon to conduct an archaeological dig in her guest bedroom closet which stores her troves of sentimental “junk”. I am not exaggerating when I use the term “archaeological dig.” Indie could reconstruct her entire past—every old boyfriend, every injury, and travel destination, she had experienced for a major portion of her early adulthood years—through the careful examination of her collection of junk.

And as an avid junk collector and professional archaeologist myself, I enjoyed our long conversation on the guided tour of Indie’s past. It was hilarious and some of the random stuff she had saved from me, I could actually remember it too. It was a trip down Indie’s memory lane.

Every so often, we all seem compelled to clean out our closets. I’m good for a spring cleaning (and full examination, of course) about every two to three years. But it seems we’re all doing that more often now as we start to approach our 40s. Forty isn’t here yet, but I just passed the exit ramp warning sign that read “40—2 miles.” So perhaps it’s that awareness that pushes us to clean out our memory closet, dust off our favorite things and reexamine both what it meant to us then and how it fits us now.

Indie, my soul sister, and I may be a bit extreme. Not just in the collecting part but the re-examining, inspecting, finding new meaning part. Some girls don’t save quite to that extent. And I know a few who have tossed out most of their junk. They were able to say, “that was then and this is now” and out it goes with the baby’s bath water.

Sometimes we save our junk because we want to hold on to our past. Sometimes we save it to remind ourselves how far we’ve come. Either way, sometimes you just need the closet space.