For those of us who are perennially broke, few things are quite as uplifting and rewarding as a really good bargain. Like, when you see that 2 for 1 sign, the endorphins just start flowing, you know? And all bargain shoppers have their circuit worked out. We all know where to find the bargains, and where to go to get the highest quality merchandise for the lowest possible price. But it�s not like, once you become broke, someone hands you a map with all the cheap places marked on it -- oh no! You learn by trial and error.
Take, for example, this past Sunday when I decided to check out this massive Warehouse Sale being hosted by Barney�s. What the fuck do I know from Barney�s, right? I�m from the Midwest! The only Barney I have any familiarity with is big and purple and needs to die a fast and ignominious death. But I saw the signs and I swung on by. Someone explain to me how anyone can have the gall to push a shirt for $60 and say it�s on �sale�. I don�t care if it has been marked down from $115, it�s a fucking shirt!
But this isn�t about the shirt. This is about the Italian suede jacket that accosted me the minute I walked in the door. He was smooth and beautiful, and he had his filthy hands all over me right away, whispering sweet, Italian nothings in my ear, trying to seduce me and take all my money. It almost worked, too, but I had the presence of mind to break from his intoxicating grasp and stumble back out into the light, where my Empty Bank Account waited for me with a tight grimace on its dour face.
Empty Bank Account has been a really shitty shopping partner, I feel I should mention. For the last few days, he�s followed me around to every store and talked me out of each and every single purchase I�ve even considered making. Even when I made that dreaded trip to Ross (Dress For Less!). Not to say anything against Ross, or the people who shop there, because they really do have some great deals there, but this was the second most depressing shopping trip of my life. The first was this time I went to a thrift shop and watched some woman get all excited over a bag of broken Happy Meal toys from 1984, because they were 75% off. I cried all the way home.
But I digress. Ever notice how, at places like Ross and Filene�s Basement, everything smells ever so slightly of failure? All the cast-offs from Hilfiger�s seasons past sit forlornly on the shelves, because some asshole neophyte in the design department decided that Shit Mustard Yellow was the new black. It gets really depressing after a while. I mean, sure, it�s Tommy Hilfiger, but�who wants shit mustard yellow sheets?
And then there are rows and rows of fugly bric-a-brac and sundry dishes. I thought I�d scored when I found a martini glass for 99 cents�and then I realized it had a chip in it. Like, they broke a glass, and they were still trying to sell it! I�ve been to garage sales with more respect for their customers than that.
From there I moved half-heartedly on to the underwear, knowing that although they had some really nice brand names, I could never purchase boxer-briefs that half of Los Angeles had pawed through. Maybe I�m a big snob when it comes to my unmentionables, but if the box has already been opened, I�m not going to buy it, I don�t care how cheap they are. Following that depressing perusal, I went to the Island O� Dress Shirts, which looked as if it had been laid to waste by a band of bloodthirsty barbarian marauders who had a particular problem with button-downs. I picked through the carnage for a while, and found one lone surviving shirt in my size, but, again, shit mustard yellow just isn�t my shade.
Thoroughly depressed, I moved on to the towels, but it was the same old story. Even though most of the towels were really pretty nice, I couldn�t help but feel like they were begging me to take them home and deliver them from their hopeless existence, and that kind of desperation is never very attractive. For further evidence of this, you may witness the way that I never get dates. I was going to buy some anyway, but then Empty Bank Account had to pipe up and start complaining about how I couldn�t afford it and blah, blah, blah. So, basically, I nixed the towels and went home to sleep on my crummy Target sheets in my Old Navy boxers, drinking out of an old (but complete!) glass, and reveling in the fact that in my apartment, the new black is still just plain old black.
I�m not saying I won�t go back -- because there were some great, cheap dress shirts that would have totally fit me, if only I could grow another four inches and gain about 80 pounds -- but next time I�m going to come prepared. With booze.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: �making out� spittle And: things to remember when you are an evil genius [Like �pick up Nehru jacket from dry cleaner�?] I�m Watching: The Alligator People It�s so bad, it�s�well, bad. I�m Reading: I finally committed to Shopaholic Takes Manhattan, and so far it�s hilarious.