Retail Therapy: When the Bottom Shops Out

Happy birthday to me. Who could deny herself a few confections for her 32nd birthday? There were the shoes - the delightful nude suede lace-up half-boots I bought with the DSW gift card they bestowed on me. That was followed by an Amazon order - some books and movies and CDs because those are the sorts of gift I would want for my birthday. And when I went to TJ Maxx and everything just seemed to fit, I took it as a sign to buy it all. The Borders by my house is going out of business, and before I knew it, three trips and a stack of books later, I'd swiped a fair amount on the old plastic telling myself it was a good deal.

It didn't end there. Because in addition to my spending on non-perishables like shoes and dresses and books, there was a generous uptick in my payout for perishable items. Like cocktails. And dinners. And lunches and brunches. So while I was growing fat, my wallet grew thin.

On one particular day, a box from DSW arrived at the same time as an Amazon shipment, and I arrived home to both directly from a shopping spree. My den was littered with boxes and bubble wrap and the smell of new shoes and a pile of new books and the wadded up cellophane that covered the DVDs strewn among the rubble. And I felt a twinge of something. But ignored it.

But looking back, I can see how sad it felt to sit among all those new things and still feel the void. I know it's cliche; but cliches are cliche because they so accurately portray the human condition in all its repetitive glory. I mean, it's nothing new to shop out of sadness or loneliness or desperation or all three. But cliche or no, it was still the case.

I know what I was thinking in some moments: that I deserved new things to compensate for the lack of whatever else I wanted. I was seizing those things I wanted that I could acquire with a credit card. Who wouldn't want to exact that sort of control when other things on the wishlist are so maddeningly unattainable no matter my credit limit? Why shouldn't I buy pretty clothes and beloved books and movies that provide the perfect escape from reality when faced with the immense dissatisfaction of what I couldn't purchase?

What a harrowing truth. I think I finally accepted it during a bridal shower - an affair at which we were the sole shoppers in a downtown boutique. And instead of selecting one item as a token purchase, I chose...well, more than one. Despite the discount the boutique offered, I still nearly choked when presented with the credit card slip. But with a swift flick of the pen, I signed my name under a ghastly total. That was the moment that the rationalizations and rationality collided in my head in a strange confusion of voices about what I deserved and what was okay and what had spun totally out of control.

The point is not how much I spent. It wasn't the money. It wasn't that for once in my life I burned through an entire paycheck like water. It was that I let myself. That I could be in a place where I found it permissible to soothe my wounded soul with so much stuff. The truth came close to the bone...that I could be reckless because I just didn't care anymore. Who needs to be reasonable when all hope is lost? Who needs to rein in when the rain never stops? Why not shop myself broke? What's to lose except money?

To be honest, I haven't taken anything back. Perhaps because I truly like the things I purchased. Perhaps because when I wear those jeans I simply had to have or the dress meant for the next special occasion, I'll remember. I'll remember that all hope is not lost. That there's something to hope for, even if it's just for that place where the aubergine Ralph Lauren dress will be the perfect attire.

Image via Rita H. Ireland

Let's Be Honest

The spiral started, well, how spirals start. At an infinitesimal point behind you that's hardly discernible once you recognize the endlessly loping curvature that looms above you. Round and round and round until the circular shape with its no-end-and-no-beginning ways keeps you from even trying to recall its origin.

That's me, now. Looking back at that spiral, not even trying to fathom how I got to this place at the bottom. And let's be honest - for awhile, I've been slipping and sliding down the spiral with reckless abandon. Acting like I was powerless against the sloping gravity of it all. Like an impertinent child sailing down the banister, I picked up terrible habits with an alacrity that was mind-blowing. The eating. The shopping. The sleeping. The self-deprecation. The self-loathing. The perpetual negativity.

That's me, now. Finally plopped rather decidedly on my arse at the bottom. My first impulse is to offer excuses. But I've been here before, and excuses get me nowhere. So I'm trying something new. In light of my present position, in light of the recognition of my free will to be somewhere besides here, I'm going to explore my choices with all honesty. I'm going to tell the whole truth - the whole ugly truth - and hopefully find my way away from the ugly something less hideous...something tolerable...something that resembles the fragile beauty of hope...

Image via Randall C. Page

Go Ahead and Laugh

* On Saturday evening, as we drove down the highway in the cold rain, discussing how hard the holidays were on Anna, my mother withdrew a "finger pistol" from her pocket and fired at each of the lighted angels hung on the streetlamps.

* The Professor is now my friend on Facebook, but his acceptance of my friend request was preceded by an e-mail explaining why his relationship status is set to "In a Relationship" with The Ex.

* I have developed a crush on the FreeCreditReport.com dude.

* The Dirty Film Boys continued their stare tactics until the ladies in our office revolted and created a sign to wear on our backs that said, "I can see you looking at me in the reflection, genius." But The Boss interceded and let the Dirty Film Boys know they were creeping us out - to which they apologized and noted, "They're the best things to look at up here."

* I am seriously disappointed that I missed the Britney documentary and even consulted MTV.com to find out when it will be online.

Beer Goggles

Walking downtown for a lunch-time errand.

Pass three guys working a beer distribution route.

I keep walking, but I can feel the eyes. Instead of being outraged or annoyed, this thought pops into my head:

"Yeah, that's right. There's a swing on that back porch."

Confession: I Am In Love, Part 2

Today, I am in love with Adam Duritz. That is all.

Confession: I Am In Love

I have discovered Romance Novel Heaven. Seriously. I stumbled upon this little bookstore that's been around for quite some time in my little hometown. It's lodged between a drycleaners and some other nondescript business. You'd never really take notice of it smack dab in the middle of a brick front strip center adjacent to the neighborhood that cropped up when I was in high school and was where we thought the nouveau riche were taking up residence.

But on the inside...I was blown away. Any bookstore in which the shelves are not only alpha, but alpha in sections with labels like "Paranormal Romance," "Mystery Romance," and the length of one shelf entirely devoted to the various Harlequin series in numerical serial order is my kind of place. I confess, like Augustus Gloop set loose in Willy Wonka's factory, I could've stayed in there all day browsing the titles under "Historical Romance" and the shelves whose labels noted space dedicated to some of my most guiltily favorite authors.

And it gets even better - it's a used bookstore. So, almost like a library, I can read, return and revolve. It's a never-ending supply of smutty romance novels being browsed simultaneously by other slightly smug looking women who are piling one Bachelor Chronicle on top of the other.

Just like most of the roguish heroes in these novels, this discovery is so bad, yet so good.

Confessions of the Strange but True

* Tonight I attended a sheep shearing. I also correctly identified a tool used for castration.

* I have taken to wearing a velour track suit cast off to me by Anna who received it as a Christmas gift from her in-laws. I am so ashamed.

* I bought three pair of shoes this weekend. And two of them were comfortable. I know. I don't know what's wrong with me.

* I went to a groundbreaking today for the very first hotel in my home county. Scout's honor.

* In the office NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament pool, I am currently in 51st place out of 51. There goes my $5.

On My Sleeve

Even though one of my New Year's resolutions was to "blog it out", I wonder sometimes if I say too much. I've never been known for my poker face or my bluffs. Like ol' Geo Washington, I cannot tell a lie.

But there's a difference between telling a lie and telling everything you know. And sometimes, I wonder if I err on the side of showing my hand when it really isn't necessary. I wish I was more mysterious, more of the kind of person that intrigues. But the truth is, I tend to blurt out whatever's on my mind whether or not I'm asked to share it. I often say that I'm a teller - I'll tell you anything you want to know about me. I'm a walking Freedom of Information Act.

I suppose in some ways that's how I interpreted blogging it out - using the blog as a forum to sort through things "out loud." Puzzle through whatever is on my mind and come to some conclusion.

But sometimes, I think I've got my thoughts too much on my sleeve. I feel like Slim Goodbody - all my insides on the outside, exposed. Which is my own fault. No one's forcing me to tell what I tell...but is it too much? It was all good and well for Slim to have his spleen on the outside, but I wonder...does everyone wish I'd stop venting mine?

Running on Empty

I've been operating under the misconception that grief gets better day by day, inch by inch. The truth is, it's three steps forward and two steps back. Or maybe it's that everything is forward, it's just that some of the forward motion still hurts like it's fresh all over again.

With unexpected death comes unexpected emotions. I've been withdrawn. I don't know what to say or do. I've clung to solitude and the shelter of family. Because when I'm alone or when I'm with them, I'm with someone who feels what I feel.

I feel guilty that I'm being neglectful of friends. I know everyone's life is still going on and that good and bad things continue to happen. And besides that guilt, there is the guilt that I'm a little bit frustrated that my own life isn't going on. Everything is focused on getting through this time, which means we're supporting Anna, which I want to do. But this weekend was the first in over a month that I've been at home, and I resent a little bit (it's so hard to say aloud) that I was just starting to think about getting out there and getting a life and now life is different.

I'm fighting it all, too. I'm fighting the solitude. I'm fighting against myself to seek other people out and talk to them. I'm fighting the guilt. I'm fighting these feelings of frustration that seem so selfish and wrong. I'm fighting and fighting until there's no fight left.

And that's where I was when I got to Thursday - having tossed and turned through another restless night, having fought through the feelings all week. And I crashed. I just crashed. I almost didn't make it through work.

That's when I realized that I can't run like this for weeks at a time. Because day by day, inch by inch, it will get better. But the road is so long, that it's going to be many, many weeks before we get down it. I can't run on empty for all that time. So whether it's two steps back, whether it's selfish, I've got to take some time to focus on myself or else I'm just going to have a complete breakdown and be stranded along this long road, no good to anyone.

Don't Panic

Thoughts pell-mell like so many colored kites jagging in storm winds...tugging to get free of their lines, giving slack and then straining, but all the time held tight by a single unyielding thread. Colored blurs flapping, the sound of a playing card on bicycle spokes. A loose thread unraveling, the reel coming free.

Lines tangle. Kites crash.

One singular sensation
It starts with...
...thrumming blood, right ear, so hard I press my finger in to make sure the drum won't burst
...sharp tightness, central chest, pinching beneath the bow of my sternum
...dull nausea, stomach pit, slick and threatening...

Pleasemakeitgoaway

Fight the pricking tears. Fight the gag reflex. Fight the breath coming so fast that is never enough. Fight the claustrophobia of mind.

AndIdon'tknowwhy

Wracking shivers but I am not cold. Or maybe I am. I am numb and feeling everything amplified - a sense of irrational imploding. Attempting sleep, but in the darkness, all I can think is

Pleasemakeitgoaway

If I fall asleep, it is to wrestle like David with an Angel, restless and overpowered. And when I wake, it is to purge.

Justtomakeitgoaway

AndIdon'tknowwhy

Nerd Alert

As if the spate of Harry Potter posting didn't tip you off, I'm going to seal the bargain: I am a nerd.

For the past few weeks, I've been watching Simon Schama's The Power of Art on PBS, which comes on a couple of hours after my mother's weekly dose of Antiques Roadshow. The Power of Art is like Behind the Music: Classical Art. Each one is about the rise to heady success, the onset of arrogance, the downfall, and the death in utter disgrace. It's kind of addictive. And I'm mildly in love with Schama, an affable British historian who possesses something of a Tim Gunn air about him. He strolls through galleries in the same open-collar white button-up and black tailored jacket in each episode and tosses out pithy, almost gossipy information about each of the artists and their masterworks. Like Bernini, a sculptor who committed adultery, only to find his brother was doing the same with the same woman, and therefore sent a servant to slash his mistress's face with a razor blade.

I'm no art critic, and, in fact, have very little real understanding of the meaning of most art. But Schama makes these artists into the rock stars of the day, celebrities mingling among the rich and powerful until they decide to make a scandalous statement with their work. It is his exploration of their work that I find so fascinating. The way he talks about it, wandering through the veriest details, it is so captivating that suddenly I can see why David's The Death of Marat is unholy and beautiful and transcendent and treason. And after he raptured about the exquisitely fine line between reverence and revelry in Bernini's The Ecstasy of St. Therese, I hope I get to see it firsthand before I die.

There are only eight episodes, and I'm sorry to say I missed three of them - Van Gogh (featuring Andy Serkis as Van Gogh!), Picasso and Caravaggio. I saw Bernini, Rembrandt and David, and still have Turner and Rothko to go. The show is an absolute culture clash in my mind: art deemed so great that it demanded reverence and an explication of it the brings in all the messy passion and rebellion and irreverence. It is art historian meets Perez Hilton. And I can't get enough.

Confessions of a Pottermaniac

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you'll probably think that this post isn't that much of a confession. And those of you who have been around me and subjected to my enthusiasm during peak periods of Pottermania (like the present) will no doubt nod your heads in agreement. But here is the full confession of a Pottermaniac, and the promise of posts to follow that will clearly establish that my obsession has reached monumental proportions.

I am nearly done rereading the full Potter cannon for the let's-not-even-try-to-count time. I very deliberately started out with Sorcerer's Stone about six weeks ago with the aim of finishing Half-Blood Prince fresh and ready for the midnight release of Deathly Hallows in 10 days' time. At present, I'm about 200 pages from accomplishing that goal. Others are rereading - I know Susan's a bit ahead of me. So is my brother - but he cheated and just reread Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince.

But I read carefully, painstakingly. And here's where the obsessive Pottermaniac confession comes in. I read with a notebook beside me and kept notes about questions and theories that arise from each book. I've run a number of them past Mom, and she's been kind enough to entertain and debate each of them in turn. And yesterday, we got totally out of control and bought Mugglenet's best-selling What Will Happen in Book 7? while at Wal-Mart.

All this to say, my Pottermania is reaching an absolute fever-pitch, with the release of the movie at midnight tonight (I'm planning a weekend viewing) and the conclusion of the whole series just days away. Prior to the Deathly Hallows release, I'll be posting the remaining questions raised during my reread of the books. And while the readership on the blog has sky-rocketed from searches for Deathly Hallows spoilers, I think the reality is, there's no such thing. We can theorize and conjecture, question, and keep our fingers crossed that Harry makes it out alive. But we won't really know - save the few and the proud at Scholastic and Bloomsbury - until the clock strikes midnight next week. Until then, I'm going to be preparing for the final installment like it's my job. After all, I don't have a real one yet.

Lift & Separate: A Tale of Two Boobs

Confession: For most of my adult life, I've been wearing the incorrect bra size.

It's true. And I am going public with this information for any of my readers who may also be suffering from IBS (Incorrect Bra Sizing).

I arrived at the bra size I've been wearing through trial and error - trying on bras and giving my best guess at which one fit right. But today, I said modesty be damned and allowed the lingerie assistant at Nordstrom's to help me find the right bra. Turns out that the La Mystere bra that Oprah loves, and which I had been wearing, isn't so right for me. And to add insult to injury, I've been wearing the wrong size bra by a long shot.

I know I'm not the only one out there confused about what bra size I should be wearing. In fact, my mom was wearing the wrong size, too. I was slightly befuddled at being 27 and finding myself asking the the assistant, "So how should the bra fit?" Here's a hint: you should not, as I was, be using the straps to hitch the girls up.

And once I had on the right size - and after I had recovered from the astounding cup size from further down the alphabet than I would've liked -I was amazed at the results of a little lift and separate. I discovered that the size of my bust does not mean I must endure a painful bra with digging shoulder straps and an underwire hellbent to break my ribcage. Forget the truth - the right bra size will set you free. For those of you who wish to follow in my footsteps, I support you. And your bra will, too.

Fashion Statement

I will not be reading any more romance novels set in Medieval times as, not even in my wildest imagination, are men wearing "puffed trunk hose" sexy. No. They are not.

Seacrest In?

Dear Ryan Seacrest:
I admit that in seasons past of American Idol, I complained about you. I called you whiny. And punkish. And annoying. I may have even said that I kind of hated you.

I don't know what happened between this season and last, whether it's me or you. But I'm kind of in love with you this season. Maybe it's the way you came to Sanjaya's defense after his "Something to Talk About" performance. Let's face it - he's just a kid and Simon was really giving it to him. And you stepped in and stopped the massacre. All five-foot-four of you! It was kind of a thrilling moment.

And this whole Idol Gives Back effort has me seeing you in a whole new light. Sure, the highlights you got put in before you went to Africa cost more than these kids have ever seen, but you seem genuinely touched by the experience and - dare I say it? - much deeper of a human being than your shellacked exterior suggests.

I might have a little crush on you. Just a little one though. No bigger than your skinny ties.

XO & Ashley out

Overcoming First Impressions*

When it was released, I adamantly vowed not to see the new version of Pride & Prejudice featuring Keira Knightley and not Colin Firth. But it happened to be on HBO this afternoon, and I started watching. Out of curiosity, really. You know, to compare it my beloved BBC miniseries and find it severely lacking.

I was begrudgingly surprised. Despite my protestations that Knightley was all wrong for the role of Elizabeth Bennett, she pulled it off swimmingly. She delivered a witty, complex performance and possibly brought out the flawed humanity of the character more so than other portrayals, in which Bennett becomes somewhat of an above-reproach heroine. I admit, they even accomplished making her look rather dowdy. And while Matthew Macfadyen is clearly not Colin Firth, his Darcy is well-played and appropriately stand-offish. A bit more vulnerable and yielding than Firth's ever is, for he does smile on several occasions during the film.

Overall, this film has a verve and energy to it that the BBC miniseries lacks, though the BBC version does cover the novel in its entirety more faithfully. Knightley, Macfadyen and fellow cast (including the illustrious Judy Dench as the deplorably pompous Lady Catherine de Bourg) draw the wit and comedy out of the story and more accurately depict the societal gaps between the various characters. Also, Simon Woods, who played Octavian in Season 2 of Rome delivers a performance quite the opposite of the confident dictator with his affable Mr. Bingley.

My only beef was the end scene added specifically to the American version that insinuates that we tacky Americans will never understand the passion of Elizabeth and Darcy without an implied sex scene...which, just doesn't really belong in this film. Still I confess...I'll be adding it to my DVD collection in short order. For like Elizabeth and Darcy, I'm not to proud to admit when I've been prejudiced.

* A postscript for any trivia lovers - First Impressions was Jane Austen's working title for the novel.

RuMANations

A girlie-girl prone to crushes since, oh, I don't know, birth, I've always had some celebrity that I secretly pined for - or not so secretly wrote on every notebook I carried. According to the same journal that charted my musical tastes, I've had crushes on the following celebrities:

Dean Cain (of Lois & Clark fame) * Chipper Jones (of the Atlanta Braves) * Adam Duritz (of Counting Crows) * Harrison Ford * Colin Firth * Michael Schoeffling (from Sixteen Candles, although my crush had more to do with the little-known Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken) * Hugh Jackman * Joshua Jackson * John Mayer...and I'm sure there were many, many more whose names I was smart enough to not catalog for future embarrassment.

But far more embarrassing than any of my past crushes is that, I must confess, I still get celebrity crushes. And they seem to come in threes. My current list of crushes includes:

*James Purefoy - British and delicious. If you missed HBO's Rome, you missed his incredibly witty and sexy portrayal of Mark Antony, you missed out. He's just rugged. And wicked. Great voice, too. A guy's never looked so hot shoving a sword into his gullet.

*Christian Bale - I know he was popular among my friends (a.k.a. NIKI!) when he was in Swing Kids. I thought he was cute then, but now? He's smoldering. He's got that mysterious quality. Best Bruce Wayne ever (and with the worst script of all of them).

*Mr. Armani - I tried to find out this guy's name, and the best I can do is find one site that names him Andrew Cooper. But I don't think that's right. So we'll just call him Mr. Armani. He's spearheading the spring campaign for the label, and well, let's just say I'm glad we get GQ in the office so that I could tear the ads out and pin them to my billboard. Plus the latest issue has Christian Bale on the cover - bonus!

Once a crusher, always a crusher.

Just Like Pretty Woman

This morning, I put on my brown faux croc heels and noticed that the toes were a bit scuffed. Hmmm, I thought. What to do? So I did what any classy lady would do and colored them in with a Sharpie.

Thanks, Julia Roberts.

In Sheep's Clothing

Now that I've declared my independence, announced my plans to depart, and given my notice at work, I'm a mere month away from being an unemployed waif. I've sent out a couple of resumes, but I admit that my heart hasn't been in it. It's not because I don't want a job or because I don't think that jobs are out there. It's more a sudden inescapable feeling that I am...well, a fraud. I know on some rational level that it would be silly to think I could've kept my job for almost six years without having some skill. But it's one thing to succeed in the known arena, and another thing entirely to go back out into the marketplace to peddle your wares.

Yesterday, I interviewed someone who might replace me. Someone more than 15 years more senior than I am, and I felt a bit foolish asking her to describe her work experience. As if, at 27, I could possibly compete with her body of work, much less question her competence for the position. I actually confessed to her on the phone that I wasn't quite qualified for the position I hold. I just blurted it out before I had time to consider the context and the inappropriateness of telling an interview candidate that I have very little business conducting the interview.

She asked me if I felt like I had a good portfolio as I head out into the world to find another job. And I said yes. Yes, because I am proud of what I've accomplished. And I think that my work is good. But what if what I think doesn't hold water in the outside world? I can make all the pronouncements I want about my pride in my job and how I think it's good...but at this point, it's ultimately someone else's opinion that's going to matter. And I do know enough about this industry to know that it has the potential to be cutthroat and catty and condescending.

I keep imagining myself across from some unbearably hip executive who is making dismissive noises paging through my portfolio. I see the doors closing behind me; feel the impending sense of failure knowing that I will not get a call back. It all reminds me of a one-act play called The Actor's Nightmare. In it, a bewildered actor bounces from scene to scene, not knowing the words or the context and inevitably muddling everything. I feel quite like that now, like I've fallen into a performance where I should know the words because I've studied the script, but in the end, that great big hook is going to come out from behind the curtain and yank my incompetent self off the stage.

Confessions of a Former Theatre Freak

My boss is headed to New York tomorrow for an awards dinner honoring her sister. She mentioned to a coworker (and I overheard with my big, big ears) that she was going to see her first Broadway show on Saturday.

"What show?" I yelled.

"Les Mis," she called back.

"OH MY GOD I HATE YOU!!" I wailed before I could remember the following: she is my boss; I am 27; my intense love of Les Mis is a little embarrassing; my intense love of musical theatre could've remained secret; and she is my boss.

I bounded to her door and proceeded to further incriminate myself. "I looooove Les Mis. When I was in high school, my friends and I used to sit in my backyard and sing the songs. I was Valjean."

Full confession: The summer after my senior year of high school, we (the "we" outside of me shall remain nameless to save them from embarrassment) would reenact the show. As Valjean, I was required to have quite the vocal range (which I lacked). Nonetheless, we zealously proceeded with our productions. We might have recorded it a time or two.

We saw the touring production twice at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta that summer. The first time, I was so excited and emotional that I couldn't get out of my seat to stand for the ovation. And when I went to college, I had an 8 x 10 glossy of this photo on my wall. Colm Wilkinson, a somewhat aged Irish actor who really trademarked the Valjean role on stage. And I also had the color poster. And a key chain.

With my inner freak revealed, I went in whole hog. I looked up the current Broadway cast to see who's performing. And I let my boss know she'll be seeing Jenny Galloway, the Dreamcast's Madame Thenardier.

And now, I may or may not be reprising my role as Jean Valjean in the comfort of my own home.