A girl cannot pass up a good sale. There, I said it. Scavengers by nature, we’re constantly and unavoidably drawn to getting something at a discount. Things we don’t need. Things we don’t even want. Things that don’t quite fit, or look quite right, but God help me it’s half-price [...]]]> A theorem. Theory. What have you.

A girl cannot pass up a good sale. There, I said it. Scavengers by nature, we’re constantly and unavoidably drawn to getting something at a discount. Things we don’t need. Things we don’t even want. Things that don’t quite fit, or look quite right, but God help me it’s half-price and maybe one day in the next 5 years I’ll need a faux leopard-print capelet. Be honest ladies, how many unworn items have you shoved into your Goodwill trash bag along with your bitter remorse for buying something just because it was on sale?

Not to say it’s a bad thing, and certainly we often brag about the steals we’ve made by spending an hour digging through the clearance rack. Some classy French dame may disagree, “Zis Luuuis Vwuitton bag cost me an entiyer month’s salareee and trois bottles of champagne.” “Well,” your savvy American gal will reply, “I found this bag in the 75% off bin AND I had a $10 coupon on top of my 15% store discount. They actually paid me $0.35 for this. And then gave me an award for Most Awesome at Life.”

But I’ve recently noticed that this mentality creeps into other aspects of life, and that, my lady friends, is where it will get you into trouble. One such lady friend recently told me how touched she was when a friend she had casually seen last year confessed that he was willing to change his partying man-tramp ways and only wanted to be with her. She was so touched she started to consider… although she didn’t really have feelings for him and knew it was unfair to lead him on… well he was right there. He certainly wasn’t THE one, he was a little young for her and didn’t quite match her lifestyle or her shoes… but he was available. Standing in the rain (ok, I don’t think it was really raining), offering commitment and promising companionship. Maybe he would grow on her. Maybe she could make him fit, run him through the wash a few times to stretch out, or just remember to suck it in and stand up really straight everytime she had him around. He was saying the things she’d hoped to hear from another, less available man, and it’s just so tempting to snatch something up when it’s the right price.

A girl simply cannot pass up a sale.

But here’s the thing: no one ever gets pure delight from an item just because it was on sale. The purchases you really love, that make you feel like a million-dollar-Nobel-prize-winning-supermodel — you would pay anything for. The way you feel in it is worth full-price. Maybe more.

I have this red trench coat I bought online at Nordstrom’s. I was looking for a different kind of coat, but I saw this and knew that it must be mine. It’s quite a statement, with a really interesting cut and bold color, and I wasn’t even sure if I could pull it off. It was wayyyy more than I needed to spend, but I put it right into my virtual cart and virtually high-fived the virtual cashier. When it arrived, I put it on and felt like a total spy. I have to wear at least 3-inch heals when it rains now so I can stomp my way through puddles and all the small people in my life while wearing my very favorite trench coat.

The point is that it’s worth it. Don’t jump at something just because it’s there and it kind of seems like it might be useful. Your happiness is worth the wait. You deserve top-shelf, exclusive, first-class, premium plus, grade-A, red rope, haute couture, private limo, best-table-in-the-house, orchestra seating, don’t you think?

This weekend, my very patient BF and I started our costume research. I’ve been circling around the [...]]]> I love Halloween. That statement probably goes farther than any other to explain about me. I start thinking about costumes in mid-September. I have a list. I always wanted to be a hyper-realistic apple tree. But that’s another story…

This weekend, my very patient BF and I started our costume research. I’ve been circling around the concepts of Amelia Earhart, or a twofer as Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins. We were searching for old fancy hats, some goggles, a nice aviator scarf, anything to inspire the creative juices. (They taste like pomegranate, by the way. Those juices do.) After driving by two or three closed antiques stores (an ironic relic of the past, it would seem), we passed… The Garret.

The Garret is a self-described Victorian Eclectic house in downtown Bloomington, complete with authentic limestone, slate shingles, and, well, some garrets I suppose. Passing it on foot, you wonder whether it’s really a store, or maybe a warehouse where old dusty junk goes to die. In the mood for a little adventure, I said, “Let’s check it out!” Dubious BF looked at me with concern, but I assured him that since it was a lovely autumn Sunday, and it was daylight after all, surely it wouldn’t be too bad. I mean, who sets a scary story at any other time than on a dark and stormy night? We walked up the front porch, read the sign that said “The Batman House*”, opened the door with trepidation, and to the ominous jingling of sleigh bells we peeked inside…

At this point, my good sensible friend Justin’s voice rang clear as those bells in my head, “Turn around, bitch!” But as surely as I knew this was Possibly the Last Place I’d Ever See on This Sweet Earth, I knew I must continue inside. The bells really gave us away, as was no doubt their evil intention. Every inch of floor was stacked with dusty glass, lamp shades, nick knacks, chotchkies, whosits and whatsits. From behind some nook and/or cranny, an ancient lady who seemed to think bras were not period enough came out and asked what we were looking for. Did I reply, “The fastest way out of here”? “A good excuse to leave immediately”? “The entry into the netherworld you have hidden so cleverly with that roll-top desk”? No, “hats,” is what came out, and as she inevitably told us that the only hats and clothes she had were upstairs, again Justin’s voice cried to my conscience, “Run, bitch! Don’t you go up those stairs you crazy bitch!” (He gets very abusive when horror situations present themselves in my head.)

After a quick, courteous peek upstairs we snuck back out, thankful to have found our way through the maze of the decades-worth of crap. Honestly I was surprised not to have found a a couple hundred cats, or juicy skeleton, or a… basement full of albino children.

Anyway, its amazing to find new places in a town I thought I’d scoured every corner of.

Oh, and happy fall

*Note: Once in high school for a folklore project I did grave rubbings in Rose Hill Cemetery (where many an illustrous relative are interred), I in fact came across Batman’s grave. It’s good to have some further confirmation that he existed. And apparently… moved to Bloomington. To fight… underage drinking and rowdy fratties.