Returns. The ability to take things back. Don’t know how I would shop otherwise.
Sperry cute
The crazy town that is Macy’s during a shoe sale is no place to make a decision. It’s grab and go. Four pairs snagged at the pre-sale this past Saturday should be on their way to me from Kansas City as you read this.
Will I keep all four? Probably not. I don’t need them all. But I couldn’t decide in the store.
They all fit. All comfortable. All on sale. All gorgeous. If I left them in Macy’s unspoken for, I risked losing them to another suitor.
Remember The Limited’s old return policy? No sale is ever final. Those were the days.
Now you have to watch and make sure you don’t overstay the time limit. Sixty days are standard for generous stores and online orders. Thirty at the trendsetters. And always, always, keep your receipts.
put me in, Coach
My method is three-pronged. Try on once I get home. Make a decision as soon as possible. Return upon deciding. Not a moment to lose. While there is still time for the credit to hit my charge card’s current billing cycle.
From the pages of their books and blogs, wardrobe consultants urge me to go in with a list. Shop the list. Buy only what’s on the list.
I had a list this past Saturday. Silver sandals, black sandals, other comfortable shoes.
Macy’s, however, did not get a copy of my list when they sent their buyers a-purchasing for spring 2012. Maybe it’s too early in the season for sandals. Maybe comfort is out this year.
Nothing was a perfect fit for my list. Nothing except for the four pairs that fell into the catch-all category other comfortable shoes.
Sam Edelman stripes done right
Buying and returning is not an efficient way to shop. Yet I think the wardrobe consultants would side against efficiency in this case.
They consistently tell me dressing stylishly and within your means takes an effort. It takes time. And it’s worth the investment.
The first time I visited Chicago I was in my early 20s. A lovely, drunk Chicagoan took it upon herself to counsel me in a bar.
choose your color
“You’re cute,” she said. “But your nails just ruin it! You must get a manicure.”
Nothing like one woman’s criticism to motivate another woman to action.
I don’t get manicures every week. I get them when I can. When I must.
And I throw in a pedicure. Need it to exercise. How can I be expected to do yoga with unpolished toenails?
As you know, we recently relocated. Had some free time one Friday. So I’m thinking, I’m in Wichita, the largest city in Kansas. I’ll just pop in somewhere and have my nails done. No problem.
No appointment, no service was more like it.
“We’re booked until 4:30 p.m.,” said the first shop.
tools of the trade
“How about next week?” said the second.
“We don’t have time to do both,” said the third. “Manicure or pedicure?”
I have to choose? But I’ll be unbalanced. (Please hold all comments until the end.)
My free time was evaporating. Desperate, I tried one last shop.
“How long for a manicure-pedicure?”
The row of women paused their filling and filing to stare like I was from Mars.
“No, wait!” said one woman as I turned to leave. Must have been the owner.
“She can take you now.” The owner pointed across the room to a beautiful, young woman reading a magazine.
The young woman looked up and rolled her eyes. Red flag number one.
“No. No. No,” said the little voice inside me.
pedicure station
I sat down in the pedicure chair anyway. I needed to have my nails done.
As the young one began removing my old polish, I smiled and said, “I’m so glad you could take me today.”
She looked up and snarled. “You’re lucky you got in,” she said. “We usually only take appointments.”
The little voice inside me whipped around and wagged a finger. “No, you’re lucky I’m sitting in your chair, sister!”
In real life I was stunned silent. My feet literally in hot water. Better not to speak lest I lose a toe.
Forty-five minutes later, I had ravishing, plum toenails. They were shaped kind of weird, but they were all still there.
We moved to the manicurist station where the young one placed my hands in little dishes of water. Then she disappeared into the break room. For 10 minutes.
The skin on my fingers pruned and the little voice shrieked, “GET OUT!”
candy dish
Back in St. Louis at Ladue Nails I would have been done with all this in less than an hour. No coffee breaks allowed if you have a customer in the house.
Should I call her out of the break room? Pay the owner for the pedi and leave? Run screaming from the building?
Finally she reappeared, all smug and caffeinated.
“You know what?” I said. “I have to pick up my son from school. Let me pay for the pedicure and go.”
“Are you sure you can’t stay?” she said.
“You’ll listen to me next time?” said the little voice as we drove away.
Count on it.
Discretion will protect you,
and understanding will guard you. Proverbs 2:11 NIV
Despite this experience, there are many fabulous salons in Wichita. For example, I found a terrific manicurist at a friendly salon that boasts of the best candy dish in town.
Nini, at Nails and Spa on Central near 127th, advises me to be on the safe side and always make an appointment.
After an epic struggle, guest blogger Kristen Anderson Short has reached a decision. A decision women across this country and around the world face.
Pantyhose. The worst invention ever for women. I only wear them out of necessity in really cold weather.
Recently, I noticed a run in my hose. Had a board meeting that day, so at lunch I ran out to get a new pair of name brands in my size.
Back at the office, I tugged and tugged to pull them on. No matter how hard I pulled, I could not get the blasted things all the way up. Had I grown to five feet six inches, the height of my dreams?
Unfortunately, no. The new pantyhose were too short.
light sheer
My board meeting loomed. I had no choice but to go with it. Women, you know how uncomfortable that is. Men, you can guess.
Made it through the day and met some friends after work. But even two glasses of wine didn’t make the pantyhose feel any better.
I was ready to trash them when I had a change of heart. Why not save them as my emergency backup pair?
A few days later when another pair of hose ran, I reached for the emergency backup pair. Sure, they were too short, but I could fix them.
I stepped on their feet. I pulled and pulled and PULLED, stretching them as far as I could. It was a miracle. They went on and up no problem!
patterned & footless
Then I moved, and they ran faster than Flo Jo in the 1988 Olympics.
I’m not talking about a tiny run. My hose looked like I’d been dragged down the street behind a Harley. Like I’d been out all night partying with the band and forgot to go home before work to change.
With no other pair of hose, no tights, and no clean pants, I made the walk of shame into my office. The minute I got the chance, I hightailed it to the store to buy yet another pair of pantyhose.
(This is the fourth pair in the story in case you’ve lost count.)
Gingerly, I pulled them on. They ran before I made it out of the bathroom.
Once bitten, twice shy, I converted to tights that day and never looked back.
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. A time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away. Ecclesiastes 3:1 & 6 NIV
Clear the stage for the bad boy hair band that looks remarkably tame by today’s standards. Great White, Once Bitten, Twice Shy.
guest blogger Kristen Anderson Short
The lovely Kristen Anderson Short and I went to high school together.
Kristen works as a housing and foreclosure counselor for a local government agency.
A single mom of two teenagers, she enjoys reading, talking politics, and finding the humor in everyday life—sans hose.
Before January 2012 makes its final exit, there’s an anniversary to remember.
This month marks the 39th year since the 1973 decision in Roe v. Wade legalized abortion in the United States.
The hair on the back of your neck is rising as you read this, isn’t it?
Some of you are tuning out. Others are mentally rushing to your battle stations. Ready to defend your position in this divisive fight.
Regardless of which side you’re on, abortion inhabits a tragic, tender place.
The numbers are staggering. No one seems to know the exact figure. Most estimates agree abortion has ended more than 54 million pregnancies in America since Roe v. Wade.
That’s a lot of abortions and a lot of women. The Guttmacher Institute reports about half of American women will have an unintended pregnancy, and nearly one-third will have an abortion, by age 45.
The stakes are high. Abort73.com estimates providers take in more than one billion dollars annually for abortion services. On top of that, pro-life and pro-choice groups raise millions of dollars each year to support their causes.
Commonplace. Clinical. But still not openly discussed.
When was the last time you heard Jane or Mary or Lana flippantly drop, “Yes, I had an abortion last week,” in passing at the grocery store? More likely that conversation is shrouded in secrecy and whisper if it happens at all.
We whisper because this is a delicate subject. Maybe, despite our rights and choices, we recognize abortion ends human life.
Feminist writer Naomi Wolf acknowledged this way back on October 16, 1995, in The New Republic. Click here to read a full repost. Wolf writes:
Abortion should be legal; it is sometimes even necessary. Sometimes the mother must be able to decide that the fetus, in its full humanity, must die.
Ayelet Waldman did. In her 2009 best-selling book “Bad Mother,” Waldman writes a chapter entitled “Rocketship,” the nickname she gave her unborn child.
Waldman painfully recounts how she knew she was killing her baby. But she thought it was worth it. Better to choose to end his life than risk giving birth to a child who tested positive for possible birth defects. Waldman writes:
Although I know that others feel differently, when I chose to have the abortion, I feel I chose to end my baby’s life. A baby, not a fetus. A life, not a vague potentiality. As guilty and miserable as I felt, the only way I could survive was to confront my responsibility. Rocketship was my baby. And I killed him. (p.131)
Now we can carry out this choice in near-complete privacy. No accomplices but an inanimate pill. Clean and quiet, or so we think.
Enter Jennie Linn McCormack of Idaho. Sometime in December 2010 or January 2011—news reports vary—this unemployed, unmarried mother of three ended her pregnancy with RU-486, the abortion pill, her sister obtained online. Only McCormack didn’t realize how far along she was.
Frightened and confused, she put the corpse of her baby in a box and set it outside on her porch. The cold, winter air preserved the remains until they were discovered by authorities following a tip. A whisper.
An autopsy concluded the baby was between five and six months gestation.
Can you imagine the horror of facing the remains of your own child? Placing them in a box? Leaving them alone outside in the cold?
McCormack was arrested under a 1972 state law making it illegal for a woman to induce her own abortion. The case was dropped due to lack of evidence.
Meanwhile, McCormack’s been ostracized in her town. Can’t go out. Can’t work. Her private actions making her a pawn in the public battle to decide whose rights, whose life will be protected.
I’m not interested in condemning women who’ve had abortions. I’m not qualified to do so. We all sin, myself included. In Christ, there is the gift of forgiveness for you as much as there is for me and my transgressions. Take hold of it.
extinguished
Encroaching on your rights or privacy isn’t my concern either. I believe it’s most often in brave, lonely, silent moments of desperation you make a choice. You try to set things right in a tragic, tender place.
Yet we can’t turn a blind eye to the mass killing of a muted people. Little ones who have no means to defend themselves. Who have been blotted out of existence. Snuffed out like tiny match lights.
We are American citizens, born and unborn. Hold fire for a moment on this bloodied battlefield and listen. They are your countrymen. Hear them whisper.
How will we answer?
For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb. Psalm 139:13 NIV
Dear Father, hear and bless Thy beasts and singing birds; And guard with tenderness Small things that have no words. —Anonymous
“And here’s my card,” she said. “Any good colorist should be able to translate your recipe. Have them call me if they have any questions.”
Whimper. What have I done?
“This is the last time I see you before you move, right?” she said.
“No!” I said. “I mean, no. I think I have another appointment in December. If I don’t, I’m making one. I must see you again before we move!”
“I’m sure we can work something out,” she said and slathered on the magic.
My mom colored her hair over the bathtub. She had her cosmetology license and her nursing license. All the bases were covered from peroxide to triage. She could bleach your hair, splint your sprain, curl, crimp, suture or stitch.
image from freefoto.com under creative commons license
The thought of me coloring my hair myself terrifies me more than going gray.
There would be no one to blame if I turned my brunette sherbet orange like an apricot poodle. Or platinum blonde like a towheaded surfer. Or jet black like a black, black sheep. Baa.
“Look younger, longer,” reads a Clinique tagline.
Look younger, longer? So at what point after longer am I to concede it’s a lost cause? When do I give up and go gentle into that good night?
what happens at the salon stays at the salon, unless you blog about it
One of my friends is a decade older than I am. She’s in better shape and runs faster now than she did when she was my age.
Her hair color? Vibrant, luxurious auburn.
There’s hope for me yet.
Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Luke 12:6-7 NIV
