verdict

***WARNING***If you don't want to read another post about footwear, skip this post.

I ordered these in black suede...size 8 1/2. I waited for them to arrive and...they fit.

And also, let me give a special thanks for the shoe designing geniuses that realized the need for wide calf boots. I can still remember being a college student, ordering a pair of knee high boots from the J. Crew catalog (yes, the catalog. Remember those?), and when they arrived, being elated that they fit my feet and then dismayed when they did not zip all the way up. I can't blame fatness on this as I was 40 pounds lighter, 15 years younger and in the best shape of my life. I just have "generous" calves. They just plain did not fit, and no amount of wedging leg flesh in and pulling the zipper together would work. You can maneuver clothes in an overstuffed piece of luggage and you can suck in your gut while laying in the bed when zipping too tight jeans, but leg fat has nowhere to go. So hallelujah, the boots fit my feet AND my piano legs, and if you know me, you already know I didn't pay the price listed in the link above.

To the nines

I bought a pair of shoes while pregnant and I anticipated my post pregnancy shoes size while doing so. The shoes arrived and I tried them on, but they didn't fit. "Well, let's wait till I'm not pregnant and give it another go then." They still don't fit (sad horn). I had them in the donation pile when I realized my mom could wear them. They fit her. They look cute on her. So while I don't get them, at least I can visit with them. I'm not so worried about the new shoes though. It's the shoes I already know and love that pose a problem. Some of those shoes used to fit. And some of them were not cheap. They are in storage since we are getting the house ready to sell someday. I have this itch to go to the storage unit and find that box so I can try my favorites and be reassured that all is not lost.

I have a cute pair of flats that are still in the closet (not that there's anything wrong with that). I wore them to the first post baby date (Contagion, starring Matt Damon). They usually fit perfectly. This time they were slightly...tight. By the time we reached the theater they were uncomfortable. "I'm just not used to wearing closed shoes, that's all," I told myself. "I've spent the past 5 months in flip flops and my feet don't like being fenced in. They'll adjust." I even sort of said this to my husband for what? I don't know. Maybe some reassurance? It was one of those things where you add in a nervous laugh to show it's not really a big deal. Oh heh-heh, I may have to replace my entire shoe collection, but more shopping, right? Yay?

By the time we got home, I kicked off the shoes. The next day I looked up shoe stretching stuff on Amazon. There was a spray you could buy for leather shoes. One of the reviewers said you could mix alcohol and water and save yourself twelve bucks. I pulled out my husband's shoe trees and went to work a-sprayin' and a-stretchin. It helped. Some.

But there's a bunion. It's on the right foot. It's not big and obnoxious or hammer-time-y but it's there. People label problem areas on their body and my foot has its own problem area. The foot stuff started after my last pregnancy when I lived in flip flops. In the words of the podiatrist, "You're the youngest person I've seen with a heel spur." And on the bunion, she remarked, "Well, aging sucks."

So yesterday I bought a pair of shoes at T.J. Maxx. There were three in 8 1/2. I used to be a solid 8. After my first pregnancy, between 8 and 8 1/2. I'm assuming that now I am in the 8/1/2 to 9 range.

I went to the 9 aisle first. The 9 fit, but was a little loose. I went to the 8 1/2. The bunion was not happy. I went back and grabbed the 9. Then this morning, like a nerd, I looked up the shoe online and the reviewers said it was not true to size, which was slightly comforting. I don't know if I'm an 8 1/2 or a 9, though. I don't want to be in denial, shoving my feet into too small shoes because I can't accept the truth. My mom used to do this. Trying on too-tight shoes and saying "It's okay, they'll stretch." and I would say, "Why don't you just get shoes that fit?" Now I get it. When you are 5' 2 1/2 five foot three, size 9 is veering into boat territory. Just look at the display shoes in the store. Unless the small sizes are gone, that shoe will be a size 6, or 7 max. You know, the cute sizes, where the little details catch your eye instead of the length of the shoe. Then you look in the shoeboxes of the bigger sizes of that same style and ohhh. Not so cute.

It is all good if you're tall and the feet are in proportion but my feet are growing and I am not.

A Fool and her money

On a message board I visit, there was a post about Hunter boots. The boots in question are pictured above. She was asking if anyone had them, as she was considering a purchase. One of the people who has them and responded kindly (with a recommendation of where to buy them at a discount) pointed out elsewhere that this same person previously commented on the same boots with "Aren't those like $100?" (you could almost hear the hysteria while reading it). As in, "What kind of fool would spend $100 on some rubber boots?" It looks like pure hypocrisy as this person has now become the kind of fool that is willing to spend that much, but that's not how I took the alarmed response. I took it as, "I like those but I'm trying to justify why I would buy them." It's the agony of a cheap thrifty frugal person. I can relate to this.

There have been times where I have wanted a certain item but balked at the price. So what do you do when this happens? If the item never goes on sale or your size is sold out, you look for the cheaper less expensive alternative, usually made by another manufacturer. Sometimes it's a similar thing, but not a flat out knock off. Sometimes it's a blatant copy of something else (Sidenote: Skechers, you have no shame). Sometimes the copy is okay to get you by, but most of the time I wind up thinking, "It's close, but it's not what I really wanted." This means I wind up spending more because I go back for the real thing. When buying the faux version, I not only do I waste money, I also waste colossal amounts of time trying to decide what to do (buy the knock off? Get the knock off, decide I don't like it? Bite the bullet and buy the real thing...and so on. It would be a hell of a flow chart but illustrating that thought process would waste even more time. Let's just say I'm an all or nothing kind of girl (gal?) and probably better off buying the real deal if it's important. It's not like this with everything, though. I don't have a second thought over Heinz Ketchup vs. Noname Catsup. This agonizing only applies to big ticket items.

As for the boots above--I love them in that color. I might talk myself into getting them, however I am blessed with fat"healthy" calves and the wide calf versions don't come in cute colors, which means this fool will have to spend her $100 on something else.

"It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year"

Do you see this?

Any guesses as to what it might be? Hmmm?

No, it's not a Magic Eye poster from the '90s, it's not an M.C. Escher piece reenacted with vehicles, it's the Black Friday madness that occurs every year on the day after Thanksgiving. Any guesses on what time I snapped the photo? If you said 5:15 in the morning, you'd be right.

To some people Black Friday is game time. The Type A within comes out fighting for a parking space, fighting to enter the store, and fighting to grab that prized item from the sales flyer before they all disappear. You would think someone like me, who lives in a house across from the shopping Thunderdome would be first in line for that party. You would think someone who frequents Target two to three times a week would be there in the middle of it. You would also be wrong.

It's just really, really not worth it. I love shopping in brick and mortar stores, and I prefer the instant gratitude of picking up an object, inspecting it, and standing in line (well, okay not this part), but I like going, buying and going home with the item all in a span of under an hour. Internet shopping requires a wait. It also involves a degree of risk. If it doesn't fit in the store, you know right away. If it doesn't fit and you bought it online, there is a small amount of hand wringing until your return is processed and the money is credited back to you account. If the alternative is facing the madness pictured above, then I'll take the risk. That image might look like a bunch of cars defying the logic of spacial reasoning. That might look like a welcome challenge to a hardcore holiday shopper. To me, it looks like a glimpse into hell.

The Hangover

Last month I ordered a bunch of dresses online. I generally don’t order clothes online because you can’t try them on. You have to wait for the precious to arrive, try it on, look in the mirror and be honest about what you see. If it’s not a good fit, can it be tailored? Is the hassle of tailoring less of a pain in the ass than the hassle of finding the receipt, shoving it back into a package, and waiting (while hoping the package doesn’t get “lost”) for your refund? Or, if the dress does fit, are you really going to wear it? Do you see yourself wearing it, or will it require complimentary accessories? Can a safety pin keep a potential peep show neckline in check? If the safety pin is a no go, would the camisole totally ruin the effect?

As you might have guessed, I have been into dresses this year. It all started with Target’s Merona Collection line. Then there were a few others I was stalking online from another company. The full priced dresses were out of the question, but when I checked back a few months later, the clearance fairy had visited this summer's fashion line. I filled up my virtual shopping bag and placed my order. I was so pleased with my initial choices that I went back for more. I figured my credit card could take the hit until I actually saw my statement. Then when the last few dresses arrived, I had a sobering realization—the sizes were off, I was still not done losing weight, and I couldn’t see myself realistically wearing any of my selections. They were all cute dresses, but I could live a perfectly fulfilled life without them. Then I had to start culling, which involved grabbing a few from the closet (no, I haven’t worn them out yet, come on, I’m better than that!), finding the receipts, checking the return policy and marking up my reasons for the returns. It’s sobering—and not nearly as fun as filling a virtual shopping bag.

Sometimes things are just too easy; they’re too accessible. You get high on the idea of something and the next thing you know, you’re the proud owner of a bunch of shit you never really needed and didn’t actually want in the first place. Then you wake up and face the reality. Ohhhh…I shouldn’t have had the double bacon cheeseburger with the large fries and 32 ounce chocolate shake. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I need to have it? Nobody needs all of this stuff.

Once in awhile my whims result in a success. I bought cowboy boots for a decent price. The pair I had been stalking were on sale, but still too expensive for me, but I found an alternative pair that I liked, and these were on sale. “They look like they’re made out of Shrek’s skin” my husband said, commenting on the color. Hey, maybe that’s why they were on sale, but damn it, if anyone could make pea green leather cowboy boots work, it’s me. I felt especially smug when I checked them out online after buying them, only to find that the price had shot up to two and a half times what I spent on them. Don’t you really feel like a winner when stuff like that happens? Sure, you’re still a little bit more broke than before, but hey--you're not as broke as you could be! It’s a warped kind of logic, but it makes you feel better.

I’m still waiting for one dress to arrive. I will probably open the package, fish out the receipt, and without even taking it from its hermetically sealed bag, I will add it to the other rejected dresses to be sent back to the land of misfit purchases.

The Saga of THE BOOTS

For two years I stalked a pair of boots. Yes you read that right--boots. Online I discovered the perfect specimen—leopard print calf hair, check, sexy spike heel, check, Platform sole, check. They were gorgeous and woefully higher than the price I was willing to pay for animal print ankle boots.

Last fall they went on sale, but even 49% off of ridiculously expensive still ends up being too costly to justify, so what did I do? I went to a store and bought what I considered to be the next best thing at a fraction of the cost.

Sure the cut of the shoe and coloring of the leopard spots weren’t quite the same, but they would have to do. How closely do people judge leopard print anyway? If that person isn’t me, chances are they don’t really care all *that* much. So I had some boots—not THE boots, mind you, but a compromise that would help me get over not having the exact ones I wanted.

The end. Right?

Wrong.

Despite buying the substitutes, I kept checking out those boots online. All you had to do was type the magic word into Google (“Mercurypipe”), click your heels three times, and voila, the first link to come up took you straight to Zappos. Sometimes the boots were 10% off. Sometimes more. They had been on the site for so long that I took their presence for granted. If I happened to be browsing for something else on Zappos, I could always click around and check up on the boots. They weren’t going anywhere, right?

Wrong.

Imagine my surprise when I caught them at 59% off. I immediately checked to see if my size was available, but the only size left was 10. I could get away with a 9 if I stuffed the toe, but 10 would be pushing it. I filled out the form to be notified if my size miraculously became available but I knew it was futile. Deep discount + one size left meant I had missed my chance. Not only that, but the designer had a new style of leopard print boot at full price, which meant the ones I had stalked were officially old news.

Panic struck. How could it be? I had the other boots, sure, but we all know those were Not The Same. Those were meant to tide me over until the day came when I no longer wanted THE BOOTS. And that day never came. The day that came was when THE BOOTS were no longer available.

I know, I know, it’s just stuff—a material thing you could very easily live without. I have so many shoes more practical than these, so there’s no way to even say that I needed them. They squarely fell into the category of “superficial unnecessary want”, and with another quick search, I was able to figure out what had become of the arsenal of boots that had once been on Zappos.

Bluefly bought them. Sure, the name of the style had been tweaked a bit, but the photos indicated that these were the same boots—same exact, down to the stock photos used on the site. There was no free shipping, but the 49% off sales price was there. I checked the sizes—all were available except my exact size—8. But they had 8 ½. I could get away with a little extra toe room. I bit the bullet.

Am I doing the right thing? I asked myself as I typed in my ordering information.

"Sure you are," I replied. "You looked at these suckers for two years. Why not give yourself an early Christmas gift? Go on. You deserve it."

I could save that money. I could buy someone else something nice. I could give it to charity.

"Are you crazy?"

Well, no, but how can I justify spending--

"But the boots." I replied. "THE BOOTS. You let them slip away on Zappos, and now that you’ve found where they went, you don’t want to lose them again!"

I pressed the “Complete order” button and waited for my confirmation to pop up.

I felt a little sick at the amount (because 49% off of ridiculously expensive is still expensive) but if I brought my lunch to work for a month, I could defray the cost. And if I kept that up, I could save a lot of money over a year. Bringing in lunch was the answer. Why, if you added it up, I was buying the equivalent of THE BOOTS (at 49% off) in lunch every single month. That was worse than just buying THE BOOTS once.

Early the following week, I tracked the shipment. “They should get there soon,” said a friend, “the warehouse is just down the road in Virginia.”

When Wednesday rolled around, I came home and checked the front step. Nothing. I went upstairs and checked my computer. “Delivered at 4:55 p.m.” read the UPS note.

They were already here!

I checked the front again, but there was still nothing. I went to the garage, opened the door and—there, in the corner between the house and the garbage can was a box. The return address was Bluefly. I retrieved it, closed the garage and whisked the package upstairs to my room, where I prepared for the unveiling. Would they be everything I had hoped for, or was the idea of having the boots better than the reality?

I pulled off the packing tape, pushed the stuffing paper out of the way and uncovered the purple Stuart Weitzman box. With a deep breath I pulled off the lid.

Angels sang. Beams of light rained down from the heavens. It was...beautiful. (Sidenote: why do I look like Tobey Maguire?!)

Okay, just kidding. But there they were in the “flesh” (in the leopard printed calf skin? How do you describe it when you “meet” an inanimate object?) It is kind of gory and creepy if that object is made from a once living thing.

I pulled them out and tried them on. By now I was in pajama pants, so it wasn’t a good look, but this was more of a test for fit and feel. The soles of the shoes were—stiff. The heel was a bit higher than I was used to. I hobbled down to the guest room to check them out in the full length mirror. I wasn’t sure if I had pants long enough for these, but I’d figure something out. I would make them work.

After I took them off, I studied the workmanship. Each boot was made of two pieces of material. The hair was like silk. The color was rich. Even the suede on the platform resembled velvet. These made the substitutes I bought last year look like utter crap. They were expensive—the most I had ever spent on a pair of shoes, but come on, you’re paying for QUALITY. I still felt guilty about the cost but it was a one time deal. I’d get over it. Besides, I never had any of this buyer’s guilt before having a kid. For some reason being a mother makes you think of all of the different ways you could have spent that money for OTHER PEOPLE. If it’s for you and strictly for you, somehow it seems wrong. (Oddly enough, men don’t seem to have this problem.)

So the next thing was preparing for the Debut of THE BOOTS. Holiday party? Nah, that involves too much standing. Dinner out on a weekend? Possibly. They would be cute with jeans. Work? That involves a lot of sitting, but that might be better. I would have to make sure the rest of my outfit was subdued though. There would be no coordinating animal print scarves, belts or bags (though I own some of those as well). I wasn’t trying to represent the entire animal kingdom. I was just going for interesting little accent piece. You know, kind of a plain outfit—oh that’s a nice silk jacket, oh there are some black pants and then WOW! Did you see those boots? That’s what I was going for.

So I wore them yesterday. It took some adjustment, but seeing the world from four inches higher than my usual perspective was strangely empowering. If I walked short distances they were moderately comfortable. I could do this!

A friend asked if we could meet for lunch. “Sure,” I said, picking a location not too far from my own building. I could strut down there without having to change shoes, I thought. When she called to let me know she had arrived, I thought, Well, so have I! THE BOOTS and I have arrived.

Okay, no, I didn’t think that. I’m not that much of an asshole. I just told her I’d be there in two minutes. I grabbed my bag from my desk, took a step and whoops—

I looked at the floor first. Was there a hole? Had I tripped? I stepped down again and whoops—

Something wasn’t right. I balanced on one foot, bent my knee and sloooowly lifted the other foot. There. The heel was--bent?

No! It was broken. Clean off! I had to study it for a few seconds to fully process what happened before I pulled off the heel in disbelief. Five slightly bent screws protruded from where the heel should have been. What in the world? The first day I wear them and THE BOOTS didn’t even make it to lunch time? I’ve had payless shoes that stayed intact for years, but the most expensive shoes I’ve ever bought don’t even survive a few hours? Quality my foot.

I felt a little sick inside, but it would be okay. I put on my spare shoes (kept in my desk drawer), grabbed a plastic sack and stuffed the boots inside and continued on to lunch. There was a cobbler and he could probably fix them. In fact, I took both boots in the event that the other one had a similar flaw.

After lunch, I beelined it to the cobbler's shop.

When he pulled out the pliers relief washed over me. There was hope after all. Suddenly he stopped. Shaking his head slowly, he said those awful words.

“They can’t be fixed.”

"Can't. be. fixed?" I echoed.

He explained that part of the main screw had broken off inside of the heel which meant there would be no repair.

"I'm sorry." he said, obviously reading the anguish on my face. It was curtains for THE BOOTS.

Now was the time to panic. I returned to the office, sat through my meeting while wondering what Bluefly’s return policy was. If they wouldn't take them back I'd have to break out the Liquid Nails and try my hand at shoe repair once I got home. After the meeting, I went to my desk and checked online

“Footwear returns will be accepted on unworn shoes returned in the original shoebox (without postal labels).”

Well, that didn't sound good. It was time to call a human being and plead my case. I called customer service with my sob story (emphasizing that this was the first day I had ever worn them) and Tiffany the customer service rep told me I could send it back noting that there was a defect and I would get my money (or credit) back.

I exhaled.

“They’re still available in your size if you want to buy another pair.” She offered.

“No,” I said, “I don’t think so.”

“I understand.” Replied Tiffany.

I’m sure there’s a lesson in all of this. Priciness does not equal quality? All that glitters isn’t gold? It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Who knows; I’m still trying to figure it out. I even pulled the substitutes from the closet. The calf hair felt like sandpaper and there was a seam down the toe, but they were still in one piece and had survived their debut wearing. Even if they hadn't, I didn't spend nearly as much on them. Sure, they were Not The Same, but they weren't so bad.

What I'll remember most was that feeling of disappointment and the horror of holding the dismembered heel in my hand. Never again will I insist that paying the extra guarantees that what you're buying is better than the cheap-o version.

Stuart Weitzman, you're dead to me. Dead!

(well, at least until these go on sale)

Just In Case

What happens when you want to buy something but can't justify the purchase? You find yourself weighing the “want” factor against the “need” factor (and the debt factor?) before you make your purchase. I’ve wanted things I swore I couldn’t live without, some of which are now gathering dust in my closet. At the pinnacle of the wanting, I would daydream about the object, envisioning myself dancing in a flower-filled meadow with the object of my desire in my hot little hands. That object symbolized happiness.

Yes, yes, I know, happiness comes from within. We all seem to know that, but even so, we still hold onto the belief that one little purchase, that thing we want, that will be just what we need to be even a little bit happier.

Raise your hand if you've justified a purchase using any of the following excuses (or something equally ridiculous):

-I'll end up in Mexico if I don't buy a GPS for my car.

-I won’t rest until every TV in my house is a flat panel.

-But those shoes would go perfectly with my outfit. I’m destined to buy them.

My hand is up--I'm guilty.

Then there are the purchases bought solely because they were on sale, or worse, on “clearance.” "Sale" means, you’d better get it while it’s hot while "Clearance" means you’d better get it before it’s gone! It’s very easy to convince yourself you need something when the words “for a limited time only!” are flashing through your head. You can get worked up thinking, “Well if I don’t buy it right this second, that’s it, the door to happiness is closed forever!”

So you buy it.

And then, next week, you notice there’s a new and improved version of your ticket to happiness, making what you already own obsolete. This is very common in electronics, but it happens in other areas too. The fashion term “last season” is just another way of saying “obsolete” or “outdated,” or simply, “out.” Which means you have to start the to-buy-or-not-to-buy process all over again.

Steve Jobs of Apple knows all about this—his answer to those who are holding off on a purchase in anticipation of the next advancement is that you’ll never buy anything with that kind of thinking. You’ll remain gun shy forever because there’s always going to be something new and improved right around the corner.

He has a point, but when you have a stockpile of perfectly functioning devices not being used (because the new one has video, or you got an iphone, rendering your ipod useless), you have to believe the man is onto something by making each new version of a product more enticing (and usually more affordable) than the last.

On another note, what happens when your favorite product is discontinued, or something you love breaks? Some people look at this as an opportunity to find something new while others will mourn until they find a duplicate or an adequate replacement. This thinking is fueled by the fear of running out of that beloved, irreplaceable thing. The fear that you will have to find a replacement, but no matter how hard you look, you will not capture the magic of the original. Buy it and hold on tight, your mind says, just in case you don't find this very thing ever again. I fall into the second type of thinking.

Let me explain—

I have a pair of sunglasses I bought a month ago, Kenneth Cole Reaction Aviators—list price, $50, that I found for $9.99 at Marshalls (Even though I mentioned the term earlier, I have no problem with “last season’s” wares). Anyone who shops at Marshalls knows it’s a needle in a haystack establishment. I saw no other shades like this pair. In fact, I had to take another pair that was similar (but not the same!) to the register because the ones I wanted did not have a price tag (let me reiterate that this was Marshalls).

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago. I was at work and my prized sunglasses were hooked into the neckline of my shirt. I bent over and they fell to the floor. I picked up the glasses and placed them on my desk. Seconds later, I looked at those glasses, really looked, and noticed, hey, a lens popped out!

The horror!

I paced the office, backtracking my steps since lunch, when I last remembered wearing my intact sunglasses. No luck. The lens was gone and I felt positively sick inside. Yes, they were $9.99, and I could probably find something similar for that much, but that was not the point. I liked these glasses and a couple of weeks was not an adequate amount of time for me to attain a full appreciation of my purchase.

I searched the floor under my desk and dug through my purse, but came up empty. I knew exactly what I had to do.

I had to go to Marshalls after work to see if they had another pair.

So I did.

And they didn’t.

I forced myself to go to Trader Joe's (which is in the same shopping center) so it wouldn't be a completely wasted trip, but I still drove away feeling as if I had failed my mission. I had to think of another plan of attack.

The next day, after work, I scoured T.J. Maxx (another needle in a haystack establishment). At first I found a pair with the same style frames, but in a different color scheme--“Not the same!” my mind screamed, but I was willing to compromise. I spotted at the rack of sunglasses on the opposite side of the store, in the men’s section. I held onto the pair I found, but walked over there with the farfetched hope that maybe I would be lucky.

I turned the rack. It looked like it held a blend of men’s and women’s frames. This was a good sign. I looked at the bottom of the rack…could it be? It was! In no time, I swapped the wrong colored shades for the right ones, a perfect match for the pair with the missing lens. I had arrived with a silly dream of finding the exact same pair—the last pair of its kind in an entirely different store and magic happened.

Redeemed, I paid for the glasses and left the store feeling as if a weight had been lifted from my heart. So really, I paid $20 ($21, if you count taxes) for two of the same pair of sunglasses. Really, it wasn't a bad deal considering the original price for two pairs would have been $100 ($106, if you count taxes).

The next morning I grabbed the plastic bag that held the empty food containers I had taken to work the day before. There, at the bottom, was some kind of disk shaped object shrouded in the bag. I was puzzled—what could that be, I wondered. I reached in, grabbed hold and—

The lens. It was the lens, missing for less than two days, and safely tucked in my bag the whole time. I laughed at the irony—all that stressing over something that was there all along. I cleaned the lens, found the frame, and popped it back into place. Good as new.

I decided to keep both pairs anyway. I can spread the wear and tear that way. Or if one pair breaks I can use it for spare parts in the event that the other pair has a problem. You know, just in case.