792. Adventures in Online Shopping

I am not much of an Internet clothing shopper.  I am more of an Internet clothing lurker.  Sure, I go to the Eddie Bauer, J.Crew, or Anthropologie sites, but ultimately I cannot pull the trigger. 

It has nothing to do with the safety of the site’s credit card processing center.  I will buy books on Amazon.  I will buy handmade greeting cards on etsy.  But a pair of jeans or a swimsuit that I cannot try on first?  Never. 

I am one of those body type sizes that is not easy to fit.  My body type is one that should possibly purchase a 12, but is somehow secretly convinced that the 8’s were made just for her.  When I walk into Nordstrom, I am slightly insulted that the 8’s don’t realize that they are my size.  The 8’s roll their eyes at me and whisper to their smaller sisters (the 6’s) about how I am delusional.  Ultimately, the 14’s take pity on me and promise they will be loose and comfy. 

Sitting in front of my computer and staring at the screen, some cute tops from Garnet Hill beckon.  They come in an array of colors, specific colors that I know look good on me.  The tops say, “Hey, MOV, we are basic.  We are flattering.  And we are on sale!” 

Now, if I was in the actual store and came across a cute top I like (which, sadly, is rare—both parts of the equation are rare:  the shopping and the finding things I like), I would most certainly buy three or four in different colors.  Black top, red top, white top, done! 

I let my finger hover over the mouse.  Do I want to put it in my virtual shopping basket?  Oh, look, free shipping!  I finally commit. 

The package arrives two days later (with normal ground shipping, not the insanely priced SuperQuick delivery); it is as if Garnet Hill had the tops already wrapped in tissue paper and sealed in their special mailing envelope just waiting for me to place the order (“She’ll do it,” Green Top whispers to Blue Top, “just you wait.  She’s impulsive!”). 

With a smugness normally reserved for volunteers in the African desert (“I am a good person to help poor people in Africa” = “I am smart to save money by buying in bulk and on sale”), I rip open the package.  There are my tops.  The ones that looked so cute on the 22-year-old college student model. 

I take them out of their protective plastic and spread them out on the sofa, like we are on an awkward blind date through an Internet matchmaking service, and I might offer them some ice-water or a glass of wine.  They look exactly like they did in the picture.

I take one to the bedroom and try it on.  And then I cry.  They are not tears of happiness, but tears of disappointment and despair.  I am yet another woman the Internet has lied to, another victim of high expectations and a non-Claudia Schiffer body. 

It’s not that the top does not fit.  It does.  It is the right size (umm, Large, thanks for asking) and fits fine.  It is just unflattering.  It just hangs on me, or rather droops. 

I wait ‘til The Husband gets home to confront him with his wife’s poor judgment in Internet clothing forays. 

“What do you think of this top?” I demand as he walks in the door balancing three bags of groceries. 

“It’s fine.  Where’d you get it?  A garage sale?” 

The shirt is unfazed.  The shirt seems indifferent to the critique. 

“No!  Not a garage sale!  I ordered it online!”

“Why?” 

“Because I needed a new shirt!” 

“If you don’t like it, send it back.” 

I don’t tell him that it’s not that easy.  Oh, sure, I could fill out the paperwork and go to the post office and mail the shirts back in their special return envelope.  Except for the fact that they were Final Sale, and Garnet Hill does not accept returns on Final Sale.   

I keep the shirts.  

I plan to sell them soon, maybe online or at a garage sale.

MOV           

433. That Anthropologie Dress

My closet is pretty boring. If it was a flavor, it would be dry wheat toast (without jam). I was looking through it the other day, desperately searching for some morsel of excitement (scone! bagel! brioche!), when I spotted the gourmet chocolate croissant of my closet: the Anthropologie dress.

In a moment that can only be described as “a departure from my financial reality,” I had wandered into the exclusive boutique to browse. A stunning cobalt blue silk dress with a subtle geometric tan pattern beckoned me. I'd walked over cautiously. Huh, size 10: my size. I flipped over the tag:

The final sale price was actually in the realm of my Checkbook Acceptance Program. I couldn’t figure out why no one had snatched up this gorgeous dress yet. I decided to try it on. Back by the fitting rooms, a string quartet was playing and someone was handing out mimosas. The masseuse stepped out of the way so I could scoot past.

The dress made me look tall where I was short, and skinny where I was fat. I petted the smooth fabric, and that’s when I realized what it was really made of: magic. I imagined I was Cindy Crawford and looked this good in everything. I had to have this dress.

There was only one tiny problem. Cleavage. This dress had mistaken me for a Playboy playmate or possibly a hooker, and it dipped down in front lower than I had ever let my college boyfriend go.

But seriously, $39? Anthropologie? Magic silk Cindy Crawford dress?

Maybe I could pin it.

I walked up to the counter to pay. I noticed the salesgirl was wearing a rather low cut top herself.

“I’d like to buy this,” I said, handing her the dress.

“Ohmygosh, I love this! This is so pretty. I tried it on, but I decided not to buy it because it was too …”

Here words hung in the air, like saline implants.

“The dress was too what?” I prompted.

“Too, uh, too …” her face turned a lovely shade of Valentine. “It will look very nice on you.”

I swiped my debit card through the machine while she wrapped my new dress in crinkly silver tissue paper. I could hear my environmentally conscious sister whispering in my ear, “Tell her you don’t need the tissue paper! Save baby whales from forest fires!” But I ignored her green tones and instead asked the girl if I could have extra tissue paper because the dress looked fragile.

And let’s be honest: it was a $499 dress, I deserved a few sheets of tissue paper.

I got home and modeled the dress for The Husband.

“Wow,” he marveled, “Where are you going to wear that?”

“Oh, I dunno, I was thinking maybe work?”

He spit out his coffee. “Hon, it’s a little revealing to wear to work. I can see your bra when you lean over.”

Maybe he was right. The dress languished in the closet for many months, waiting for its crinkly silver opportunity to shine.

This was finally the day. I would wear it to work.

I walked into the high-end kitchen store in my cobalt silk mood-enhancer.

“Great dress!” said one of my co-workers.

“Really great dress!” said some random customer.

“Nice dress!” said the UPS guy who was delivering boxes to the back stockroom.

I was beginning to feel a tad bit self-conscious. Fortunately, we wore aprons at the high-end kitchen store, so I slipped mine over the cobalt dress.

When it was time for my break, I removed my apron, grabbed my magazine, and zipped out to buy a salad at my favorite café. I ordered my usual garden salad, Coke, and a brownie. As the salesclerk grinned at me, I watched him give me the largest brownie from the tray and put extra ice in my drink.

I reached for my purse to pay, but I had forgotten it. Was my purse at the store? In my car? At home? Where was my purse?

“Sir,” I began, “I’m so sorry, but I forgot my wallet. Can you cancel my order?”

He handed me my order anyway. “Don’t worry about it, miss,” he said sweetly, “it’s on the house.” He winked at me.

I think this might be my lucky dress.

MOV

86. Anthropologie Catalog

Let's talk about a topic that is near and dear to my heart. That's right, the Anthropologie catalog. I looooooooooooooooooove the Anthropologie catalog. It is like Target on steroids. Okay, it is not in the remotest way at all like Target. It is a more like watered-down version of Neiman Marcus. Everything is very pretty, very unusual, and (ahem) very expensive. Crystal necklaces share valuable print space with bird-shaped teapots; models in goth dresses frolic next to overstuffed lounge chairs (never on the actual chairs, then we couldn't see the print of the chair's fabric). There is always an overabundance of bicycles and books, or tables made of books (rarely is a model seen reading a book). Hotels seem to always play a key role in the Typical Anthropologie lay-out: we see maids walking past open suitcases (did the maid steal one of the crystal necklaces while no one was looking?), tea service languishing on silver platters, and a charm bracelet left haphazardly on the desk when Someone Was Writing Postcards. The Anthropologie World also consists of chandeliers interwoven with real live flowers (consumer must provide her own live flowers), empty Murano glass vases (all the live flowers are in the chandelier, remember?), strappy sandals even in the dead of winter, butterfly hair clips (multi-purpose--as they can apparently be used to clip one's keys together as demonstrated on page 15), and embroidered linen jackets with nautical details. The Anthropologie customer is always ready to jet off to another fun adventure in some distant and remote corner of the world. She keeps her passport in her pocket, just in case. Webster's defines "anthropology" as the study of characteristics, customs, etc. of humanity. But can we study Anthropologie's photography and staging? I. Just. Don't. Get. It. On the cover of their August 2010 issue, a very pretty girl shows off an olive-green knit skirt, paired with a hand-sewn aqua blue sequined tank top, finished with a retro-looking floral cardigan. She rocks the look. For a brief moment, I consider how I might look were I similarly clothed. The total cost of this little get-up?

• Skirt: $98
• Top: $128
• Sweater: $128

If you are good at math like me, then you know the total is $841. It is not the cost of the clothes that bothers me so much (well, $841 is more than our grocery budget for the month. For a family. Of four.) What strikes me as unrealistic is that the photograph that the company chose to put on their cover was one of Pretty Model eating a gooey vanilla cupcake with lots of icing! In the $841 ensemble! There are so many things wrong with this picture:

• If you spent $841 (plus shipping) on an outfit, are you really going to take a chance on getting it dirty and possibly staining it with a $3 cupcake? No. You might risk a $75 bottle of wine, but not a $3 cupcake.
• Do models even eat cupcakes? I thought they were not allowed to. I thought they were only allowed to eat celery.
• Who buys vanilla cupcakes? Everyone knows that chocolate is the only flavor worth eating.
• And, by the way, Anthropologie, no one wants to see Pretty Model with messy frosting all over her mouth. This is supposed to be Escapist Fantasy Literature. If I want to see messy mouths covered in crumbs, I need only look at my children during meal time.

On page 2 (oh, yeah, this is going to be a LONG blog), Pretty Model is walking down a deserted vintage European cobblestone street, at dusk, by herself in a flimsy dress with ankle boots. There is a random quote on the page: "Over time, never again, because once and then to mine eternal." Huh? If you are very technologically advanced like I am and have access to Google, you will quickly find that even trusty reliable Google does not know what to do with that quote.

Google says: "No results found" (and this is accompanied by a yellow triangle sign with an exclamation point, which I take to mean: "Anthropologie makes up their own quotes."

Makes up their own quotes?!? Who would DO such a thing?

Okay, so the quote makes no sense whatsoever. And I find it somewhat alarming that she is

• walking by herself at night in a strange city while she is wearing a revealing dress (this could be a dangerous area, Pretty Model! Did you learn nothing from my blog about Sketchy-ville? At least I had a car! You are walking!)
• and speaking of walking-- what's with the ankle boots? on cobblestones? do you not actually value your precious modeling career because guess what-- the Modeling Scouts don't usually choose the girls wearing casts.

Next page (try to keep up here). She's on a bicycle backwards (!) as if she has never actually ridden a bicycle (she probably hasn't). She is supposedly shopping at a street market, looking at home-made spices. The cost on this outfit is

• silk top (very practical for jaunty bike-trips): $118
• skinny jeans (very comfortable! not too tight at all!): $138
• velvet jacket with embroidery: $148

Yikes! $1200 this time! That is the identical outfit that I wear when I go to the local Farmer's Market here in Crazy Town.

Next page: $88 silk leopard print top with rosette. And where is Pretty Model this time? In a very cheap-looking coffee shop, more like a roadside rest-stop. I can tell you in real life Pretty Model would not be caught dead in this place. There is a sign in the background that lists greasy diner type food and prices. Coffee is 99 cents. This makes perfect sense because

• We are obviously not in Europe anymore
• Pretty Model does not have money left for an actual Starbucks cup of coffee or latte after dropping $88 on the blouse

Next page: similar set-up. Over-priced outfit consisting of a cowl-neck sweater ($88), flared 1940's-style tweed skirt ($98), and magenta (at least a practical color for once!) suede ankle boots from Brazil ($258). Grand total for complete outfit: $306. No money left for anything else, so she is shown munching a bag of potato chips.

Next page. Outside a church. In a bikini. Don't get me started. (Plus, since when is Fall Season the time to show swimsuits? Every other page is cashmere and tweed and wool and leather and suede............ now we have spandex?)

Next page: a different but still quite beautiful model (finally, a different model) is walking into the street and about to get hit by a car! Why is this image here? I am not thinking wow, I really love that jacket and scarf, but more like hey, Stupid Beautiful Girl! Look the other way because you are about to be hit by a car!

Next page. Stupid Beautiful Girl, who somehow eluded death, is now inside some sort of deserted and dilapidated old mansion that is mysteriously vacant. She is flipping through a small book and has a Mona Lisa smile. What is going on here?

• Did she break in?
• Does this prove how Stupid she is because she broke into a house that does not even have anything to steal (it is empty)
• Why did she stop to read this little book
• and what the hell is she grinning about?

Next page. New Girl We Have Never Seen is wearing a heavy wool black coat with an white leaf design embossed on the fabric. The coat is stunning. It is worth every penny of its $288 price tag. New Girl is standing in the snow, looking off into The Distance. That is when I notice that this coat is probably not the most practical choice in 32 degree weather-- the coat has 3/4 length sleeves. For winter. For snow. I guess it doesn't really matter if your wrists get cold, because you are trying to show off your new Anthropologie charm bracelet.

Now we are into the home furnishings section of the catalog. There are chairs and beds and curtains and pillows and art and sofas and glass pitchers and ceramic plates and lamps, all peeking out of crates............ and yet, their is no padding or protective packaging of any kind. Just, you know, eight glass plates (remarkably unbroken) in a sideways crate. Or a $1598 upholstered arm chair with spindly little legs sticking out of a crate. This furniture must not belong to New Girl................ it obviously belongs to Stupid Beautiful Girl (who else would hire these inept movers?).

We are nearing the end of the catalog (Thank God). Accessories. Lots of ankle boots. Nothing under $248. This time, the photographer (or creative director or producer or whoever dreams up these shots) has decided that it is a brilliant idea to get rid of the models all together (so sorry to girls Pretty, Stupid, and don't forget New-- I do sort of feel like we are all on a first-name-basis by now). The boots are the star of the show, so why not display them stacked on pieces of toast? (Maybe toast left-over from that grunge-y diner that Pretty was forced to go in to.) Or, better yet, let's photograph the boots randomly strewn about (intermingling with other boots) on top of white doilies with coffee spilled everywhere-- just what I want! coffee stains on my new $298 Spanish boots! Or maybe even put the boots on top of stacks of candy-- who cares if they get sticky? who cares if you can no longer eat the candy because it has been stepped on?

I can't take it anymore. I flip the catalog shut. Without really meaning to, I notice the back: $439 leather lace-up boots, sitting on frozen peas.

Ahh, it all makes sense now: the Grand Finale is Anthropologie's Andy Warhol moment.

MOV ("Mutilated Overwrought Vision")