This goes out to all my fashionistas, with or without the budget to buy what they crave.
Look, we can’t all be Suri – playing in our $100,000,000 tree houses while waiting for our own “personal shopper” to come home bearing the hippest of clothes without ever having blinked at, or even looked at the price tag.
But any good fashionista knows how to get what she desires, whether she can afford it or not. She knows how to shop a sale, how to shop an outlet, how to shop online and when to shop a low priced chain. Plus it never hurts to have friends in the industry from one’s days as a stylist.
Like a great detective, a good shopper always gets her dress. But how is one to take advantage of a designer who decides to do what we all did in college and, slum it for a week or two, if she can’t get the goods in her cart? Virtual or otherwise?
I know, I’m supposed to love being an American because of terms like “laissez faire,” “capitalism” and “free enterprise,” but damn you eBayers for ruining my ability to buy Missoni at Target! Like Roseanne Barr singing the national anthem, it’s really unpatriotic of you!
For weeks I have anticipated Missoni’s arrival. Sure, being bombarded with commercials, print campaigns, and an enviable fashion week show made my desire stronger. Yes I know, another American perk – ad space. Sure, I wanted the bike and the pillows, maybe a throw or two, that cute little espresso cup set with multiple patterns and a
stand for your countertop,
and let’s not forget the clothes. Oh, the clothes. Look, I’m a label whore and a clothes whore (I know it’s a clothes horse,) but I never give up a chance to use the term whore. Until now, my Missoni stuff (never bought at retail) was mandated to affairs and on-air segments, but for $49 I can wear Missoni to pick up carpool. Hell, I might wear it to shoot hoops. Probably not, as my love of stilettos makes that nearly impossible, though I have played baseball in wedges. (More on that fiasco)
I then found myself at an end cap looking at makeup bags. (The bottom of the barrel of Target shopping.) A woman swooped by and literally devoured the content of the shelves into her cart like a swarm of locusts. The only thing that would have made the scene more cartoonesque would have been if she’d ridden up on the Missoni bike swept it into the basket and then turned around to swipe the lone makeup case that I was holding in my hand.
I wore one of my new spoils yesterday and multiple women walked up to me and simply said some variation of, “Is that from Target” and “How did you get it?” For the first time, ‘Is that from Target?’ Wasn’t taken as an insult. And my answer, “Yes, yes it is. I was persistent and bucked the new ‘American Way.’” I also whored out my services as a stylist for a few hours. Oh, capitalism you fair weather friend!