"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.

Lament

Remember how I posted about feeling like I just had to have something? No? Okay, well I'm too lazy to find the entry, so trust me. I can be compulsive sometimes. A little irrational about things, even. If I want something, I feel as if I will just die if I don't get it. I will spend a day hand-wringing from the suspense of not knowing if the object of my desire will wind up in my hot little hands in the end. Sometimes I do get it, and it's a disappointment (remember the saga of the boots? No? Well look it up, I'm feeling lazy and not in the mood to link it right now). Sometimes I get it and it's everything I had hoped for and more. Sometimes if I don't get it, I get over it and move on. Then there are the other times.

Yes, I'm talking about the times when I want something, don't get it, and it haunts me for days, weeks or years. Price is not the object, it's that this is the one that got away. If only, you think. I never die when I don't get these things, but man I hate life for awhile. The last time this happened, it was when I wanted to buy a portrait of Heffer.

I know, I know. "Who?"

If you didn't watch the show Rocko's Modern Life, chances are, you don't know and you don't care about Heffer. This was the sidekick friend to the show's main character (Rocko) who serves as the greedy, yet loveable oaf. He's the precursor to Patrick from Spongebob. He's a gluttonous, childlike cow raised by wolves. It's funny--please just trust me on this.

Well on my list of blogs, I have linked to the journal of the show's creator (Joe Murray). Recently he's been auctioning off animation cels from the show and eventually he put up a piece of original art--a 5X7 framed painting of Heffer. I intended to bid on something eventually, but when this came up, I got that feeling in my gut. I HAD TO HAVE IT. The moment that feeling comes along, all rational thought is overruled.

"Can you bid on this?" I asked my husband after deciding I HAD TO HAVE IT. I used to be an eBay junkie and I'd like to say I stopped bidding because I calmed down and broke the addiction, but the truth is, I can't remember the original email address I used when I signed up for the account. I have a yahoo address I've been using forever, but I signed onto eBay using an old account from an internet service provider that I don't use anymore (*cough*Roadrunner*cough*). Now that I can't figure that out, I stopped bidding because I'm too lazy and impatient to log in and update my profile information. Here's a nice thing about being being married--my husband knows his account information so he can bid on my behalf. It's like the low rent version of rich people getting someone else to make their bids at Sotheby's.

Anyway, I kept the end date in my head. There was one bidder already, but if my husband swooped in, I had a chance. The bidding was set to end right around the time my daughter's bedtime, so if all worked out as planned, he would win the auction and I would be tucking in our daughter. Then we could go collapse on the couch with our glasses of Champagne, celebrating our purchase of the Heffer painting.

"The auction ends soon!" I reminded my husband, just before heading up from the basement. He was multitasking, with his iPhone in one hand and the game controller in the other.

"I won't forget; I've got it." he replied, urging me to go upstairs. Nothing makes you feel better than knowing someone's got your back. I went upstairs and finished putting our daughter to bed. About a minute until the end time, I texted my husband (yes, he was two floors down, don't judge). Then I went downstairs for confirmation. His face very clearly told me that he indeed did forget, and did not have it at all.

And what happens when that happens? I don't know about you, but I get pissed (hey, I'm not proud). There was a misunderstanding. Apparently he did not get that this was a one of a kind thing--there would not be another original Heffer painting just like the one we didn't win. There wouldn't be another one simply because that WAS the one. Really it's my fault. I should have done my own dirty work and if I had lost fairly, at least I knew I tried. I didn't try.

What I did do was get in the car and drive across the street for a little retail therapy. (hey, I'm not proud) I didn't find any Heffer paintings, but I calmed down.

My husband emailed the seller (Mr. Murray), but nothing came out of it. The next part was killing off the hope that maybe my husband was playing a little joke with the intent to surprise me later on. When there was a lack of mysterious packages in the mail and the Heffer painting failed to materialize for Valentine's Day, I gave up.

I realize the final step is getting over it and moving on. I considered removing the link to Joe Murray's journal. After every auction, he posts a photo of the item with the announcement "SOLD!!!" in the title. I can't even bear to look. In fact, I can't even go there to see what else he's put up for sale, if anything. If I see something and decide I HAVE TO HAVE IT, then if I don't get it, I really might die this time. Sometimes it's just better not to look in the first place.

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.