On the Importance of Maintenance Shopping

Two weeks ago, I had the delightful opportunity to meet my good friend Frenchie in the big city to do what we do best: gab, eat, and shop. It's something that we try to do once a year, and this time it was enabled by my wonderful, miraculous leave. Generally, we have to wait until the summer when both of us are available, but this time, we were able to go on her spring break.

As we tooled around the city, I found myself in the clearance section at Ann Taylor (hey, it happens). I tried on a bunch of stuff, from the feathered to the spangled, but found myself at the register with three items: a black cowlneck sweater, a black cardigan, and a black tweed skirt (a departure, actually, given that it's got pockets and pleats). Not exactly my most fashion-foward moment. As I waited in line, I defaulted to the rationalization of "maintenance shopping."

What exactly is maintenance shopping, you ask? Strangely, I'd never articulated it that way to myself before, but it's the utterly necessary task of buying and/or replacing the must-have items in your closet that you go to again and again. Black cardigans aren't exactly exciting, but when the one that you have is little but a collection of fabric pills and mended holes, it's time to do some maintenance shopping. I should note as well that it's easy to let maintenance shopping become a rut---and you'll know when you're there when you get home, stow your new purchase next to its brethren in your closet, and then when you go to wear it, you can't tell it apart from the others---but it's not a task to be neglected. It's not exciting, but it's necessary.

An academic leave does not engender maintenance shopping (at least not for me). This is the time when I realize how shallow other parts of my wardrobe are, in fact. I'm now wearing jeans that have been idling at the bottom of the stack for years, I keep running out of clean t-shirts, and my sweat pants are on permanent rotation. My array of professional clothes are hanging in a deserted end of my closet, all lined up with nowhere to go (and I'm just hoping that some of them will fit when I have to put them on again). Given that my sartorial experience for the next 4 months will involve the same t-shirts and sweatpants, maintenance shopping was pretty far down on my list of necessary expenses. However, Frenchie's visit goaded me a bit. "If nothing else," I figured, "it will be less I'll have to find and pay for come fall."

The bigger lesson here, however, is that maintenance shopping is important for exactly the reason that fashion experts tell us to always have one LBD in our closets----you never quite know when you're going to need it, and when you do, you can't guarantee that you'll have time to go and find something. Case in point, when a semi-random employer that you never really expected to hear from calls you and asks you to come for an "informal lunch" the next day. 24 hours notice is barely enough time for me to check in with every person who's ever given me advice about this kind of thing, let alone to go through my closet to see what fits and isn't stained. Thank you, maintenance shopping, for ensuring that I at least looked cute on short notice. [I just mis-typed that as "shirt notice" which would be a far better title for this post...]

Shoe-Limia

Between reconciling my Christmas spending and hearing about market panic, I've been really trying to reel in my spending. I've held off on my typical "OMG, it's January, and if I don't get something now, I'll be stuck until spring comes" binge, and with the exception of a rather smart piece of furniture, house expenditures are way down. And nothing is more indicative of this than the fact that I haven't bought a pair of shoes since August (ah, but what a pair they were!). So that's six months avoiding my own personal Waterloo of shopping. And then yesterday came.

It was inevitable, really. Along with the holidays came my mother's visit, which was nothing if not a week-long eating extravaganza. Add that to the first few weeks of school, and let's just say that my loose pants are no longer my loose pants. So I've been to the gym (or at least vowing to go) far more often than last semester. But there are only so many times your toes can go to sleep on the elliptical machine before you realize that it's time for new trainers, eh? So yesterday, I bit the bullet and headed to the DSW. Because if I'm going to spend money on shoes, I'll be damned if I'm buying $120 sneakers, for god's sake!

After trying on many, many kinds of trainers (running? walking? cross training? why doesn't someone just make a generic "gym" shoe?!), in every brand conceivable (New Balance, Ryka, Adidas, Nike, Mizuno, for crying out loud), and taking practice laps around the store in each pair (yup, I'm serious about this stuff), I finally found a pair of Adidas that seemed appropriate. My feats of athleticism, however, led me to consider all of the weirdnesses of my feet (wide like paddles, pronation problems, etc.), and the ways in which my regular (read: cute) shoes might exacerbate these issues. At the top of the list: my favorite black ankle boots---the ones I wear weekly, have heels that now look like they were cut on the diagonal. Did I mention the pronation problem? And here I was at DSW, and maybe I should just look around, and gosh, look over there! The exact same boots I have now, except with a zipper! And heels that don't look like they've been chewed by a very precise dog!

Here, then, is a pic of my spoils from yesterday:

"But wait!" I hear you say. There are THREE pairs of shoes in that picture! Yes, well. Last night Senor Fluff wanted to blow his Barnes and Noble gift card on some Agatha Christie novels (there's really just no accounting for taste). I went along for the ride, since I had to return some items to Macy's, which is conveniently located in the same mall. Since the local Macy's is obviously run by Capitalism Satan, however, it was in the midst of its winter shoe clearance. On my way to housewares to take back pillowcases, then, I just took a quick peek at the over-run sale racks. I was strong, I tell you. I resisted red patent leather pumps, metallic flats, green satin peep toed wedges (that one hurt, I gotta tell you). But then, I had a moment. I haven't worn lace-up shoes for years, but it's clear that somehow Victoria Beckham and her bizarrely-alluring bitch-goddess/schoolgirl look has seeped into my consciousness. Because since when am I interested in suede oxfords with 3 1/2 inch heels? Oooh, since last night, apparently. And even more interested when they were 75% off. Here they are, in all their glory:

Those will be just the thing with tights and dresses, no? Break up the monopoly that knee-high boots have had all winter? Let me play out my professor=modern victorian fantasies?

Sigh. I've apparently become a shoe-limic. Last night's binge has necessitated today's purge. If you drive by a pile of shoes left out in the snow, you'll know where to find me.

Wakka Wakka

Of the many things on my now-defunct Christmas list, fleece generally resides at the top. It's cold in them here parts, and it just seems that there's never enough fleece to go around, and what there is is of the type that requires three shirts underneath it to make it work. [This could also be due to the fact that we keep it at a frosty 60 degrees in the house, and the thermostat is located in the warmest room...]

So, when I found this fleece top at Athleta pre-Christmas, I thought I'd hit the mother lode:It was super fuzzy, it looked warm, and since I tend to wear a scarf in the house (see note about indoor temperature above) that big ol' collar looked as if it would do the trick. So I added it to the Christmas list, Mom came through, and I waited for it to arrive. Apparently, the thing was on back order, so I waited through Christmas, the New Year, and lo and behold, it arrived yesterday! Hooray! I snatched it from the UPS guy, ripped open the package, and charged upstairs to try it on. Holy crap is this thing soft! Warm! Love!

Once I had it on and zipped up, I modeled it for my better half. "Feel!" says I. "Soft! Warm!" And then I made the classic blunder. Never ever introduce the idea: "Of course, it feels a bit like a muppet...."

That was it. Every time I put it on, I'm now plagued by questions. Am I ready to make dinner, or am I too busy rotating my ears around? Don't I need to wear a little hat with that sweater? Do I have any dumb jokes that I want to tell? Yes folks, my new favorite sweater, apparently makes me look like this lovable creature from our childhoods:

Denial, Denial

When I woke up on Friday morning, I had twelve odious tasks to complete. They are all wretched in different ways. Some require extended conversations with people with no social skills, which will satisfy them temporarily, but will commit me to contact them later in the spring as well. Some are simply tedious, requiring looking at horrendous, dry assessment materials and revising them. One requires locating a bunch of information that is spread across two catalogs, three computers, and a number of emails from last year. One means sitting down with an almost finished article on a traumatizing topic, editing it, and adding a section that acknowledges the complexity of violence without blaming the vicitim. Another is the task of starting the research for a paper I'm scheduled to give in three weeks. This list goes on.

On Friday, I tackled two of the odious tasks, which were actually two versions of the same one: writing letters for colleagues going up for tenure. This is an odious task only because the stakes are high; honestly, how can you wax rhapsodic about people you work with and admire without wondering if the committee reading the letter thinks you're blowing smoke? Needless to say, there was a lot of handwringing Friday, interrupted only by the process of writing horribly inappropriate sentences ("not only is Dr. M a credit to the college and a fine scholar, but she also gives great head!") and erasing them, and then quadruple-checking to make sure that I didn't actually leave them in. As of Friday afternoon, I crossed the task off the list. Two down, ten to go!

So, of a Saturday afternoon, I'm contemplating my list, wondering which of stinking bastards to do first. [Note: in case you're wondering if you missed something: no, the teaching prep hasn't even made it onto the list. Because on the scale of odious? Watching a Kathryn Bigelow film and reading contemporary literary theory for class ranks just under cruising on a yacht in St. Tropez. Sad, but that's where I am, folks. Clearly, I need to get out more.]

With all of this to do, then, it will come as no surprise that I've spent the better part of the last two hours consumed by a single question. Not "isn't it time to get a new job?" Not "how is it that this is my life, and what would I have to do to work on a goat farm in New Mexico?" Not even "am I hungry? sleepy? needing to fix something in the house rather than work?" No. Instead, I have examined this classic query: "how short is too short for a maxi skirt? Am I just too stumpy to pull it off? And do boots ameliorate the problem, or is that just wishful thinking?" And periodically I visit the Boden website for a visual:
Looking to escape your own swamp of odiosity? Feel free to discuss in the comments!

Oh, Hell, One Last Fashion Post

Last year at just about this time, Frenchie and I met for a clandestine shopping trip in New Jersey. You can relive the good times here (but please ignore all the whining that accompanied it. Sheesh! How do you all put up with me?!). In what is clearly destined to be an annual event, we made our way back to Jersey earlier this week.

It was a delightful way to start this week, which is technically the last week before school starts, but is the one packed with meetings and get togethers and such. Tomorrow, for instance, is an all-school gathering, lunch, and then a brief break before a reception. And who am I to complain? The newly-hired faculty have been in orientation for two days, while our writing diva has held workshops for all kinds of campus groups! Psychologically, it would be better to simply accept that school starts this week, but I can't seem to get up on that horse. So complain I will: why aren't my syllabi done? Why can't I manage to edit my damn article? Why do I have to return phone calls from people who ask stupid questions?

Shopping, however, is a great balm for the soul. I'm sad to say that the wonders that awaited us last year were few and far between this year. Either we timed it better last time, Frenchie and I, or else the secret is out: the outlet mall was packed with locals (all of whom seemed to have some tremendous beef with the management; every store we went into had someone arguing with the cashier in loud, nasal tones). I would really, really like to avoid huge stereotypes of New Jersey. It makes it difficult, however, when you can't get out of the state. What's up, NJ? Would it kill you to put up some signage? Basically, I need to know that the Garden State Parkway entrance is coming up and what side of the highway said entrance is on. I need the sign to be bigger than my hand, and I need it to come about a mile in advance, as opposed to the current "turn here right now and you can still make it" warning. That's all I'm saying.

As such, the merchandise was a bit picked over, but Ms. F and I did our best--which is pretty damn good. I found a delightful 60's style print dress, which I have no idea how to wear (hmmm. fodder for another post?), which Frenchie went home with not one but two pairs of footwear, one of which we dubbed "dominatrix-y." But isn't that just part of the charm?

If one is (and I'll claim this label for myself) a "fashion whore from afar," or more politely an "sartorial aesthete," then half the fun of the outlet mall is witnessing untouchable clothes. God knows that Urbania doesn't have a place where I can go and ogle the latest Stella McCartney or Prada lines. And I certainly can't put my foot in a Manolo Blahnik shoe. But I can in Jersey, which almost makes up for the horrible roads! (The Ikea doesn't hurt either.) So, whilst in many meetings and receptions tomorrow, I'll have this mental image in my mind's eye:



My mind's eye will have photoshopped out my dorky tan lines, of course. And may I just say that Manolos would fit better if I didn't have bones in my feet? Despite these nagging details, it was fun, and what a lovely shoe! Almost as lovely as the feeling of taking it off. Whew.

May all of you have a similarly fantastic and distracting talismanic image to get you through your workweek.

OMG! *Total * Score!!

So, like, let's say that someone has been coveting a pair of shoes since they came out in late spring. Let's say that those shoes were WAY too expensive for what they were, because they're not the kind of shoes that you can wear every day, or even after this season. (But they're very on trend and incredibly cute.) Let's say that the way one talks oneself out of dropping a bundle on said shoes, every time one sees them at the store and fondles them lovingly as they so deserve, is by telling oneself that really, they are shoes that are only appropriate for 14 year old girls in hot pants. Or Christina Aguilera. Either way, not oneself. One also tells oneself that she is going on the annual outlet trip with Frenchie in a week, and thus there will be no buying, particularly of shoes. Especially of shoes that are only appropriate for 14 year old girls in hot pants, or Xtina Aguilera.

Then let's say that one wanders into a Marshalls and comes face to face with said shoes. Then let's say that it's the summer clearance sale, and that the shoes are 75% off. Then let's say that every other pair of these shoes that Marshalls has in stock is the 2.0 version---the one that lacks the crucial detail that made the shoes irresistible...Except the SINGLE REMAINING PAIR in one's shoe size.

What does one say then? Well, if it's me, she says "ring them up."

Below, the uber-cute shoe. Still only appropriate for 14 year olds and Xtina, but I'm a'wearing them anyway. Maybe with jeans, maybe with a suit. Because that's the kind of girl I am. [You may note that the shoes are perched on the lovely, lovely new sofa. It's the chocolate and peanut butter of my "work? what work? I can just buy pretty things!" fantasy. You know. Just like 14 year old girls and Xtina. But I'll forego the hot pants, even in my fantasy. ]

Finally, Fall Fashion.

In my view, it's almost impossible to think about fall fashion in July. It's hot, it's sticky, and the idea of fabrics that I love (tweed, merino) send me into itchy paroxysms just thinking about them. So, it's early, even for me, to start thinking about fall. But I had to go to this weekend retreat of fellow writers, right? I've met with these people before--two years ago. At that time, we were meeting to decide on a project and to celebrate the retirement of our teacher and mentor. It was a weekend of discussions and much drinking and dining. And I suppose I should have known that it would require something a bit dressy, but in my defense: April. Southern California. Hippie school. I spent four years there in cut off jean shorts and bare feet. Nine years later, I'd upgraded to shoes--how much further did I need to go?

Apparently much further. Almost everyone else managed that SoCal hipster cool, and I was a shlub. Hate that!! So this time, I was determined to be prepared. I didn't need an entire wardrobe of cute, because: July. Southern California. But I figured I'd need one--one dressy casual to redeem me from the underdressed debacle of '05. After some hunting with Mumsy (who, while very patient, gets a bit antsy during the day-long shopping trips now), I found this:



See how even the model is wearing flip flops? You throw some exciting necklace onto this puppy, and you're good to go. [I hope it's not the influence of HomeTown, which has a serious history of fashion faux pas of the video vixen sort, but I think I can forego the cami underneath. You know, for a party and all?] Cute with sandals AND heels? Wrap it up!

The irony, of course, is that this time, the entire group was ridiculously casual. It may be attributed to the 95 degree weather, or the less celebratory atmosphere. Regardless, the dress sat in tissue paper for the entire weekend. When I returned to HomeTown, Mumsy and I (why am I calling her that, all of a sudden?) scheduled my annual pilgrimage to the Anthropologie store. I left an offering or two, circled round to the east and then the west, and came upon this:


It's far less impressive in chocolate brown, in my opinion. I saw it in navy, and got all excited. A bit more of a modest neckline here than above, and a bit shorter, kimono sleeves instead of three-quarter ones. But how many cotton jersey, empire-waist dresses can one girl own?

At least two, and here's why: I'm betting that these are easy to accessorize for multiple seasons. Sling-backs or peep-toed pumps in the late-summer, early fall, with either a big chunky necklace or a couple of long ones. Boots and tights in the fall/winter, with scarves and cardigans or jackets. And did I mention the comfy? Sooooo comfy. Thank you, empire waists!

I have long neglected the dress as a fashion option. I've got the world's longest torso, which means that the waist of any dress is always on my ribs. Yay--both uncomfortable and unflattering: the dessert topping/floor wax of couture. Enter empire waist dresses--fixes the torso problem right quick. And if it drapes right, it doesn't even make you look pregnant! (I say that now, but if you see me and I do, it's your ethical duty to tell a sister. Got that?)

So, that's my first fall fashion strategy. It gives my shoe shopping raison d'etre.

At Last...

"At last," to quote Etta James, "my love has come along." Summer. Sweet, glorious summer, in which there are things to do but no time table on which to do them. No waking up at 6:30 in the morning in a haze, mainlining coffee, and preparing to go and face students. Which has been every morning of my godforsaken life for the past two weeks. No, my friends, the summer class is now history. Woot!

I basked in lethargy yesterday: went to get a bento box for lunch, took a long and much needed nap, took a long walk, got some ice cream at the local "this stuff will kill you" shop. Ah. I woke up this morning (7:50--that's more like it), read the latest issue of Real Simple, a snippet from the Buffyverse (oh yes, that random obsession has gone nowhere fast). Drank two luxurious cups of coffee, which had a chance to cool slightly before I got to them.

On the docket for today? I've set aside a few hours to progress on my ACUN project (urgh), which is slowly coming together. The yard needs weeding, and laundry needs doing. All of these necessaries are dwarfed, however, by the most pressing concern of all. I leave for a workshop next week, and I NEED NEW CLOTHES, DAMMIT. You know that Twain line about "beware any venture that requires new clothing" (that's a paraphrase. sue me.)? Well, screw you, Samuel. Mama's got to go meet new people and sound smart: wardrobe attention is in order.

I've got zappos.com orders in the hopper, and I might have to take a trip down to the behemoth mall. Because really, what's the worst thing that could happen if the weeds get taller, and the laundry remains unwashed?

Hello, summer.

Summer Teaching Fashion

I should be finishing up my few last student evaluations before a set of papers comes pouring in later this afternoon. I should be writing and filing the paperwork on a lingering student portfolio that's due today. I REALLY should be reading and preparing for a paper I have to give in (gulp!) three weeks.

Instead, I'm thinking about the particular sartorial economies of summer teaching. Yes, my friends, I have made the deal with the devil: in exchange for teaching one fewer class during the school year proper, I'll be teaching it during the summer. Granted, it's in a super-short session, and also granted that it's prep work for a research project I'll be undertaking with Yogini, but it's still summer, and it's still teaching. To top it off, I also have a two-week workshop to attend this summer (with other faculty) and finally, a meeting in Hell-Ay (to quote Ted Casablanca, of all people! [*sidenote*: oh my god, did all of you know that TC's real name is "Bruce Bibby"?!! Wikipedia, teh internet's gift to pop culture freaks.]).

So, what does all of this amount to? A lot of hot, sticky weather, and the need to look semi professional at the same time. Here's the problem: being a desert girl, when hot weather rolls around, all I want to wear is shorts and t-shirts and flip flops. Every summer, I make a pilgrimage to Old Navy, in which I buy 6 x-large boy's t-shirts (just the right size, and $6 a pop), a couple of pairs of khaki shorts, and that's generally my wardrobe for the next 3 months. Because I SWEAT, people!! A LOT!! And there's no use buying good t-shirts, or, God forbid, real shirts, that are just going to be trashed at the end of the season!

Clearly, this kind of wardrobe isn't going to hack it for teaching, and my guess is that it probably won't do for either of my other summer activities either. So what is the appropriate balance between professionalism and summer? Do you advocate dresses? Capri pants? Denim miniskirts and Uggs?

Suggestions welcome!