EastGirlsWest

From today’s SignOnSandiego. Make particular note of the last sentence:

Fashion Valley mall is quickly becoming San Diego’s version of Rodeo Drive.

It used to be that if you wanted to check out a Jimmy Choo or Hermès boutique, you’d have to hop on a plane to New York or at least drive up to Los Angeles or perhaps Orange County.

That is about to change, as Fashion Valley, already known for its ritzy lineup of stores, plans to bring in a raft of high-profile retailers. They include Barney’s New York CO-OP ($245 for men’s loafers), Jimmy Choo ($885 for women’s knee-high boots) and Hermès ($325 for a silk scarf) – as well as cheap chic powerhouse H&M.

H&M. Finally. Praise the lord! (I’m not sure how or why they are lumping H&M into an article about new luxury stores, but whatev.) For so long we have been suffering here in San Diego, unable to buy chic, cheap, trendy clothes at a store that doesn’t have “21″ in the name (you know who you are). We’ve have zero opportunity to drop cash regularly on the celebrity-designed discount duds of Madonna and Stella McCartney. Frankly, it’s a huge handicap to live in a town without an H-ampersand-M.

Whenever I leave town to visit a friend who lives in an H&M blessed city, my desperation is palpable. What do you want to do today? they ask. Museum? Walk in the park? Take in a play? Yeah, it’s nice to see you and that all sounds great, but what I really need is two uninterrupted hours at my favorite Swedish shopping hole, because who knows when I’ll see one again.

But now. In my own backyard, right here at Fascist Valley. Bliss.

Angela, there are better days ahead!

“Oh my god, those look GREAT.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not happening.”

“How much are they?”

“Ninety dollars.”

“Oh.”

“I told you, we should have gone to Charlotte Russe and fucking Express!”

I can’t get enough of Jezebel, the Gawker media “women’s” blog. It’s dripping with the trademark Gawker-style snark, and dishes out fantastic headlines like “Lindsay Lohan and George W., Separated at Birth” and “My Existential Sarah Jessica Parker Crisis“. But my hands-down favorite post last week was about the store I hate to love: Anthropologie.

Looking through the latest “Anthropologie” catalog takes us back to that time we decided to keep starting and stopping our meds to see what would happen; that is, the time when we were crazzeeee. The catalog is all over the fucking place, price-wise; one cute cotton top on one page will go for $78, and an almost-identical piece 6 pages later is a staggering $200.

Finally, a blog that feels my pain! (read more here)

(Yesterday morning, I’m putting concealer on under my eyes.)

“Quick. Better put on your eye cream! Can’t leave the house without eye cream!”

“Listen. It’s concealer, and I use it to cover dark circles that are painfully obvious because I am so pale.”

“Here we go. Now you’ll start listing all the other reasons you aren’t in US magazine. Hey, I read somewhere the other day - and I swear it was the New York Times - that Cameron Diaz has REALLY bad skin.”

“I can’t wear these shorts. Look at how horrible they are. They make me look huge.”

“And I told you to get rid of them when we cleaned out your closet last month. You should have listened to me.”

“But then I’d have no shorts! I can’t just NOT own shorts. It’s wrong.”

“You don’t need shorts. That’s why God made skirts.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize it was God who made the skirts.”

“Duh.”

The second and final chapter of The Wedding Dress Saga begins on The 10 in Los Angeles, heading west. Tay and I drove up there for three bridal shop appointments, on what was to be the last day of shopping. Because it’s perfectly logical that when you find the wedding dresses in La Jolla are too pricey, you head for Beverly Hills to find something more reasonable.

I don’t know what we were thinking, or how it all worked out so well. Apparently we had reached a level of blind faith that I would find the right dress, the perfect dress, on this one day in LA. Tay is extremely intuitive, and she had a feeling.

In the meantime, I had a feeling of my own. A strong feeling of desire for one of the dresses I had tried on at a shop in La Jolla. We’ll call it the funky lace dress. From M Bride.

So we had just pulled into LA. We were on the 10. My phone rang. I answered it.

It was Michelle from M Bride, telling me she just decided to order a new sample of the funky lace dress, and did I want to buy the current sample, which fit me almost perfectly, at half price?

I said, is this a cruel joke, because I JUST DROVE TWO HOURS TO START A LONG DAY OF DRESS SHOPPING.

Then I passed out and Tay had to take the phone.

When I came to, I decided this was definitely a sign. I mean, actually not a sign, right? A sign is more subtle, like a bolt of lightening hitting the car. This was an actual phone call that could help me make an informed decision about the very thing for which I thought I needed a sign.

But reality being, well, real…there were two lingering issues:

1) Half of utterly unaffordable still equals barely affordable. Or still over budget. Or more than the monthly mortgage. You get the idea.
2) I was already in LA, for the sole purpose of wedding dress shopping. As Tay wisely counseled, it seemed like bad karma to cancel my appointments and just turn around.

I gave Michelle my best “I know you can’t hold it unless I say I want it and I’m pretty sure I want it and please hold it even though you can’t hold it and maybe I’ll get there as soon as I can and oh god I’M FREAKING OUT.”

Then we stuck with the schedule. I put on dress after dress after dress. I stepped into them. I swam through them. I put so many layers and yards of fabric over my head I thought I might pass out from the lack of oxygen. When I tried to fall asleep later that night relentless visions of satin, tulle, taffeta, beading, sashes, lace and zippers in every possible shade of white kept moving rapidly in front of me like scenery on the highway.

I spent the entire day thinking about the dress at M Bride. Was it meant to be? Or a cosmic trick, an ironic twist, a red herring to throw me off course? At the very least, I felt I had an expensive backup plan. But looking at it that way made me only more determined try on every last dress in front of me.

The last stop was the place I had the least amount of hope for. From the first moment we got there, it had so much going against it.

For example.

“Hi, I’m Tay. We have a 4:30 appointment for my sister, Jessica.”
“Hi, I’m Shannon. It’s a pleazsh.”

That’s right, Shannon actually felt the need to abbreviate the word “pleasure”. She also, later in the day, abbreviated the word “nasty” to “nas”. I’m now wondering why she needed to use that word in the first place.

She had only two responses when I tried on a dress.

“You are TOTALLY rocking that dress!”

or

“Yeah, you’re not really rocking that dress.”

At the conclusion of our day, over a civilized glass of wine, Tay wondered why Shannon had chosen the super cazsh approach with us. Was it because she thought it would be the best way to connect with Tay, the person clearly in charge?

I looked across the table at Tay, wearing fingerless gloves, a sequined scarf, designer jeans, hot pink lipstick and an overall rock star attitude.

“Honestly, I don’t know what would give her that idea.”

But things with Shannon were not all nas. The very last dress she handed me, at the very end of our day, when I was clinging to my very last shred of hope and patience? I TOTALLY, TOTALLY, TOTALLY rocked that dress. So much so, that it made me forget all about…what was it? Oh, right. That other dress.

So at 6:00pm I put almost the exact amount of my original dress budget on a credit card, bid farewell to Shannon, and floated out onto Sunset Boulevard - the proud new owner of a gorgeous gown to get married in. And for the entire drive home, I felt nothing but pleazsh.

As you may already know, I’ve been married before. And there was a beautiful wedding, and a pretty dress, and a good time was had by all. I was in my 20’s and dirt poor, which made certain aspects of financing the wedding a challenge. But we also had some help (thank you, Mom) - and in some cases the lack of options made decisions very, very simple. For example:

Buying My Own Dress + no $$$ = Cheap Dress

See? So easy.

Now I’m older, wiser, prettier (let’s face it, women in their 30’s are hot), in a different relationship (Dreamy Betrothed) and a more stable economic situation. I am not in a “I’ll spend whatever the hell I feel like spending on my wedding” economic situation, but I can now actually pay my bills which sometimes leads me to convince myself I can live just a teensy, weensy bit beyond my means.

Tay and Angela took me out wedding dress shopping on Friday. Just in the nick of time it seems, because every bridal shop owner told us that dresses need to be ordered 4-6 months in advance of the wedding. (Apparently the seamstress is on a sewing schedule similar to my workout schedule, and then the dress is shipped to San Diego on a glacier.) We went to three beautiful shops, and I tried on the most stunning frocks I’ve ever worn in my life. I felt appropriately fairy princess-like and had a wonderful day (thank you, Tay & Angela).

We knew in advance that the establishments we were visiting carried a few dresses in my price range, but were also aware that most of the inventory would be decidedlly OUT of my price range. As in way out. As in not even close. There was a group decison made before we got out of the car: I should stretch the truth a bit about my budget, and then enjoy trying on the dresses.

We then told ourselves the following lies:

- I was just getting some ideas about what I liked and what I wanted.
- I was not going to fall in love with some dress I couldn’t afford on my first day of shopping.

Can you see where this is going?

I’m telling you, dress after dress made my heart swoon - and my shopping companions were quickly drawn into my web of fantasy. The first moment I crossed over to insanity occurred when I slipped into this dreamy Italian number. It was only two times my intended budget, which looking back now seems almost reasonable. But then I considered selling my car when I put this dress on. Also Italian. Even further out of reach.

Stop number two yielded the most glamorous garment I’ve ever wrapped by body in, followed by what became (for about an hour) The Dress. The Dress was then later replaced by what is now THE DRESS. But we all loved The Dress. I wouldn’t take it off. I tried it on twice. I mentally emptied my 401K.

It just kept getting better and better. Or worse and worse, depending on your outlook.

Our last stop found me simultaneously laughing and weeping in a Carolina Herrera that I have convinced myself I can’t live without. I love this dress, and it loves me back. It DOES. It needs me to wear it. If I own it, I will at last be happy. Tragically, I will also need to sell The Betrothed’s car to get it, and then he will not marry me.

I’m pretty sure I’ve come to my senses.

As we ate lunch halfway through the shopping day, I was sighing over my food, talking through the dresses with Tay and Angela, trying to understand how the lies we told ourselves were just that: lies.

“Well,” Tay said. “It’s kind of like going to the pound and telling yourself you’re not going to get a dog.”

So true. I really, really want a dog. But since it looks like I’m not going to get one, I wanted to at least post the evidence that I spent some time getting to know the dog, and that I looked really, really good wearing it.

To be fair, it started with an innocent drive to the country to buy a pumpkin. It ended with two women in fetish gear on my couch.

You’re dying to know, right?

A few weeks ago:

Friend - “So, I have a friend, blah blah blah photographer, blah blah blah fashion shoot, blah blah blah favor, would love to use your house.”

Me & The Betrothed – “Sure.”

Last night:

Friend – “So thanks again, blah blah blah Suicide Girls, blah blah blah I’ll be there at the shoot.”

Me & The Betrothed – “Suicide Girls???”

The Betrothed, silently, in his head – “Oh yeah.”

Today:

Photographer – “Before the models get here, wanted to warn you, blah blah blah nude, blah blah blah fetish, blah blah blah riding crop, ball gag, you okay with all this?”

Me & The Betrothed – “Um, sure.”

The Betrothed, silently, in his head – “OH YEAH.”

So the girls showed up dressed for the first shot. Which involved them strutting down the middle of the street, in front of our house, with one of them leading the other by a leash. They were each wearing corsets, thigh highs and five-inch vinyl heels, and I’m pretty sure our 80-year-old neighbor had a massive heart attack. (Hopefully, because of the date, he thought they were just your average SDSU sorority girls dressed up for Slut-o-Ween.)

Of course, there was an audience indoors, as well. In addition to The Betrothed, the friend who set this up came over, along with another lucky gentleman. So just to review – that’s me, one photographer, two hot Suicide girls, and three men who were suddenly incapable of remembering their own names.

Now back to the pumpkin. We got up early and drove out to Bates Nut Farm, which is probably the least punk rock thing we could have done in preparation for this photo shoot. We returned with a lovely specimen, ready to carve. And carve we did! Once the photographer started snapping, we were obviously keeping an eye on the shoot. But, we didn’t want to stare, and after reviewing our iTunes libraries, surfing MySpace, and fully discussing the previous evening’s show (SoftLightes and Van She at Beauty Bar), the four of us not involved in the photo shoot had to find a way to keep occupied. So, like the wholesome, crafty people that we are, we carved our Halloween pumpkin while one girl tied the other one up and shoved her down onto all fours a mere 20 feet away.

We really did manage to distract ourselves, but every once in awhile a slice of conversation would cut through the din and silence us immediately. Something like “Well, why don’t we try a shot with me holding the whip and her licking my nipple?” Then the boys would all lean over in unison to get a better look at the scene. Hell, I leaned over right along with them.

The girls were lovely and quite sweet. By the time they finished the shoot, we were all chatty and it seemed quite normal that our living room couch had just seen some serious girl-on-girl action. And then, as they were packing up to leave, I noticed their ball gag lying on the coffee table, right over my copy of Martha Stewart Weddings.

So in six weeks, my sister is moving in with us. That’s right: driving her Honda from Austin to San Diego and setting up camp in the guest bedroom. I know, you’re
wondering how The Betrothed got tricked into this, right? No trickery involved, I promise. Or pleading, even. He claims to fine with it all, and I’m inclined to believe him.

Anyway, Tay (as she’s known within the family, long story), is Quite Something. A tall, blonde, gorgeous, glamourous, funky, cool rock star type. You know, exactly the kind of person you want for a sister. And even though she wears things like fingerless gloves, which I would not be caught dead in, she does have some items of clothing that I like to play dress-up in. I mean, who doesn’t wannabe a glamourous, cool rock star type once in awhile?

We talk about 12 times a day, and conversation number seven just went like this:

“I have a new vintage dress. Thirty dollars, it’s totally hot.”

“Oh my god, I can’t wait until you move in and I have full access to your wardrobe.”

“I’m not going to lie to you - it will enhance your life.”

“I know! Of course, I realize my wardrobe won’t exactly do the same for you.”

“Well, you know, your clothes might be good on those days when I just want to…”

“DON’T even say it!”

For those of you who have been asking, here they are.

They’re good, right?