Saks and the City

As previously mentioned, I’m in the market for a new Chanel bag. Ever since I returned my turquoise metallic quilted 2.55 Chanel flap bag, I have regretted it. I miss it very much.

Yada yada yada.

As a result of this obsession, I have a few stories.

I like to do my homework when I’m in the market for a purchase. So, I go shopping. One day I popped into Saks Fifth Avenue to take a look at the Chanel department. I was inspecting some of the cheaper bags. About $2200. Hmm. A bargain!

Suddenly, a salesgirl was on me. She was statuesque, blond, well dressed, face totally made up, and striking. Her name was Svetlana and she had a thick Russian accent. I made the mistake of telling her that I was looking for a classic flap bag. She ran away for a minute and came back with a black calfskin single flap jumbo bag with silver hardware. It was gorgeous.

She told me it was on sale. Only $4000.

Wow! What a deal!

Except I was looking for a jumbo black calfskin double flap with gold hardware. But it WAS a bargain. The one I wanted would be more.

It was lovely.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a while. And I looked good!

Svetlana needed to excuse herself for a moment to leave me with the Chanel. Before she left she warned, “Do not let go of the bag. People are looking at it.”

I had noticed that another salesgirl kept approaching Svetlana and whispering something, then looked at some other customers. Then walked away.

They were staring. Not at me.

At Chanel.

It was freaky.

And such pressure!

While Svetlana was gone, I was trying to figure out what to do. The bag WAS a good price. But it wasn’t exactly what I had wanted. For that money, it really should be exactly what I want. Right?

But then again, it was fabulous.

Maybe I should just buy it. The vultures are circling. Omg!

The other salesgirl was hovering.

Customers were still staring.

They were like zombies in a Dawn of Dead re-make.

I was sweating.

My heart was racing.

The other salesgirl passed and stared at me again.

As the time passed, I began to calm down a bit.

I thought, I need to either buy this thing or get the heck out of here. But do I have a credit card I can use? Do I have the money? No! Ugh!

If I leave now, I won’t have the pressure of Svetlana and her damn accent trying to convince me to buy this thing.

I kind of had a tiny angel on one shoulder telling me to leave and a red devil on my other shoulder telling me to buy it.

Damn them!

I put down the Chanel and hightailed it outa there.

As I exited the large double doors and stepped onto Fifth Ave.

I was able to breathe.

Holy shit, that was close!

Your Money or Your Shoes

My sister, Sookie, just reminded me about a shoe story that happened several years ago and decided I must share.

I’m going to tell you something and I beg of you, please don’t judge… I used to shoe shop at Nine West.

Yes, I said it.

It was before I discovered where to purchase my lovely Louboutins, Diors, Manolos, Prada, and Yves Saint Laurents.

I had been eyeing a pair of turquoise blue satin peep-toe sling backs with green and blue beading, in the window of Nine West on Fifth Avenue. One day I decided to go in and try them on. And so I did.

I was definitely going to buy them. Now it was just a matter of which size; the eight or the eight-and-a-half. Every time I buy a new pair of shoes, that is the main dilemma. I agonize over it every time.

So, it’s 45 minutes later and I finally decided on the eight-and-a-half. It turned out, the shoes were very rare and there were limited sizes. I asked my sales girl wrap them up and agreed to meet her at the register.

I was standing at the register, waiting for the girl to ring up my shoes, when all of a sudden a SWAT team burst into the shop. They locked the doors and announced that no one could come in or go out of the store. There had been a robbery.

Everyone in the store stopped what they were doing and looked around at each other. I was still at the counter. I grabbed my shoe box and ducked, just in case of gun fire.

Then I looked up at my sales girl, standing behind the counter and whispered, while hugging the box, “Could you please just ring these up real quick so I can get out of here?”

She looked down at me in disgust as the SWAT team handcuffed the assailant.

Well, I do have my priorities.

Diapers or Depends?

I attended a party recently. There I saw many old friends and acquaintances. It was very nice to see old familiar faces. One of those faces was my frenemy, Malice. I hadn’t seen Malice, since she stole my boyfriend for like the umpteenth time two years ago. But all the same, somehow, it was nice to see her.

As she waved frantically at me from the bar, I noticed a crusty old man standing next to her.

Naaah. It couldn’t be, I thought.

It was.

Malice introduced me to her ‘boyfriend,’ Old Crusty Guy. No, his name was Bob.

Bob was tall, balding, white hair. Pasty.

Malice told me he was 62. Looked more like 102 to me.

Wow. Malice used to steal the cutest guys from me. Now look at what she ends up with. But really, good for her I say. It’s more than what I got. A whole lotta nothin.

Later on, our friend Julianne started bitchin’ to me about Malice’s beau.

But when you think about it, that’s the guy we want. That’s the age we should be going for. It’s good. If our man is so old, we will never be. We will always be young.

Julianne goes to me, “Did you see Malice’s boyfriend? We don’t go for that. We got for the young ones!”

Who’s we?

That’s not true. I’m not attracted to a guy in diapers.

I’m not attracted to a guy in Depends either.

Hmmm. That doesn’t leave me with many options.

This sucks.

Single women my age are screwed.

Thou Doth Protest Too Much

The first time Yenta Hessa and I went to our Hampton house this summer, we went up to the house and knocked on the door. A leprechaun opened the door. It was a 40-50 year old man with shoulder length red curly hair, a 1970’s break dance lid and plaid pants. Like one of the Fat Albert cartoon characters. His name was Jesus (pronounced ‘hey-soos’; accent on the ‘soos’). He was very nice and helped us with our bags.

Jesus had a bangin’ body and turns out was staying at the house for the entire summer. He lived there in the summer, Miami in the winter, and the Upper East Side the rest of the time. He drove a BMW sports car. So, I thought it was natural to ask what Jesus did for a living.

His reply was, “Umm. Uhhh. Ohh. A little bit of this and a little bit of that. Umm. Uhh. Ohh.”

“Huh? What kind of answer was that? What did that mean?”

Jesus could not answer and seemed offended by the question.

Anyway, he was actually very sweet and believe it or not, one of most normal guys at the house all summer! And as the summer progressed, I started to find him very hot.

But he had no interest, and I’m sure it was much better that way.

Our summer pass time was to figure out what Jesus did to earn money. There was a rumor that he was a male escort.

Then a strange thing happened in October. Jesus called me and asked Yenta Hessa and me to dinner and/or a movie that weekend.

Hmm. Interesting.

I figured it wasn’t a date and accepted that. He was going to a protest and would meet me afterwards. He is something of an activist.

But on the day of, he asked if I wanted to invite Yenta to come. He said, she can come along, but it would be dutch. I decided not to call her.

Dutch? Does that mean it will be dutch for me too? Is it a date? Or is it not a date? If it is, what should I wear? If it’s not, what should I wear?

Then it began. I needed to figure out what to wear. A dress or jeans? Sky high heels or flats? Heels would be a date. Flats would be just a friendly dinner.

It took hours.

I finally decided on cute skinny jeans, cute T, and sky-high Yves Saint Laurent Tributoo platform pumps. Fabulous.

We were going to meet at a neighborhood restaurant and then take it from there. I was a few minutes early, as I always am. I waited outside. It was a beautiful night.

All of a sudden I saw him. He was approaching me fast wearing …

… Wait for it …

Roller blades.

As he reached me to kiss me hello, he nearly knocked me off my Yves Saint Laurents because he used me to stop himself from rolling.

Really?

He was wearing sweat pants, a plaid shirt, and again, in case you missed it,,, roller blades!!!

I could do nothing but laugh about how funny that was. There I was in YSL, having dinner with a guy in roller blades.

No. He never took them off. They stayed on the whole time. He told me he wore them because he was late for the protest and needed to make some time.

He walked me home after dinner. Well, it’s more like I walked and he rolled.

God, I better not see anybody I know.

Oh, by the way, it was a date. He paid.

Damn!

Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side

I’ve been a little short on funds lately. Well, what else is new? So, I decided to sell some of my lovely closet items on eBay. I sold a pair for a steal this week, and I was at UPS mailing them out during my lunch hour.

As the young clerk wrapped my box of $2100 Christian Louboutin black leather peep-toe booties, which I sold for $500, an old scary woman walked in.

She was about 102 years old, wearing a long black coat, black pointy hat, a cane, grey frizzy hair and bright red lips. She started talking to my clerk. The clerk was not really paying attention to her and she was getting pissed.

She started talking to the other clerk instead.

My clerk was still putting together my package.

Then she summoned the other clerk and she asked him to tie her shoe and to adjust something down there by her shoe. The poor thing had to kneel down and help her as she ordered him.

It was quite amusing. I felt kinda bad for him.

I paid my bill and the clerk handed me my receipt. He thanked me. I thanked him, and then I said, “…and can you please fix my shoe?” as I kicked up my heel.

He giggled. I giggled, and began to walk away, when I heard the lady squeal, “What a sarcastic witch you are!”

I looked at her to see if she was kidding, and she glared into my eyes with hate and daggers. “You wait until you’re 83 and then you’ll see!!” She screamed as I walked out the door.

Oh my god, have I just been cursed by the wicked witch of the Upper East Side?

I was totally spooked as I placed my receipt in my purse and went back to work. When I got there, I reached into my purse for the receipt. It was gone. Nowhere to be found. And I just had it two minutes ago.

It MUST be a curse!

Then later in the day, I started to feel funny. Weird. Not myself.

Maybe I’m coming down with something.

I’m cursed! I just know it. Why couldn’t I just keep my trap shut for a change?

“I’ll get you, you pretty. And your little dog too!”

I was Dorothy and she was the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side. Only instead of ruby slippers, I was wearing fuscia sequin Christian Louboutin Pigalle pumps.

The Day the Earth Stood Still

Today marks the tenth anniversary of the September 11th terrorist attack. We all know what took place on that fateful day. We all can remember where we were and what we were doing when we learned what was happening on the day the earth stood still.


We all have a story. This is mine.


My father was in the hospital in Long Island, recuperating from a mild stroke he’d suffered days prior. Sookie, my sis, had called me from the hospital the evening before. I was in the City. She was on Long Island. My father was not having a good day and I made arrangements to call into work the next day and go over to the hospital instead. I had my car in town, so I’d be able to easily drive over in the morning.


So, the next morning, I was going to be able to sleep a little longer and drive to LI after rush hour. As usual, I awoke to Howard Stern and Robin. I guess it was about 8:30 A.M. I snoozed it a couple of times. Ralph called in and through my haze, I noticed the conversation seemed to get serious. They were saying something about an explosion at the World Trade Center. I immediately woke up and turned on the T.V. where I saw the twin towers. One on fire. They were replaying the footage of the plane crashing through it, minutes earlier.


I instantaneously recalled that Obama Bin laden had placed an explosion at the World Trade Center a couple of years earlier, during Clinton’s reign. And I just knew that it was a similar attack.


The reporters announced that all the bridges and tunnels were being closed. All but the Triborough Bridge. When I heard that, I knew that I needed to be on that bridge or else I would not be able to get to my father in time.


I quickly called Mom and told her what I’d heard and what I planned to do. She was in agreement. I’d meet her at the hospital later.


I hung up, grabbed a bag and was out the door.


As I walked down the quiet Upper East Side street to my parked car, parked in a fantastic spot by the way, I noticed life as usual taking place. Folks were calmly walking their dogs, strolling to the corner deli, grabbing coffee. I wondered, they don’t know what’s going on just a few blocks away right now. People are jumping out of the windows of the World Trade Center to their fiery deaths, children were losing their parents. Parents were losing their children. Just blocks away, we were losing our loved ones and our city in terror and none of these people knew.


I jumped in my car and continued on my mission to get to the Triborough Bridge before it closed. I was focused. There was nothing else that mattered. I was going to get over that bridge. I turned on the radio as I drove. Howard Stern. Then 1010 WINS.


I thought, Hmm. Sounds like the bridge is still open. Keep going.


And I did.


As I made my way toward the bridge, it was clear sailing. I was near the tolls. The Easy Pass line was long, so I paid cash and swooped right through to the bridge. It was open! I was entering it! I did it!


Ring! Ring!


I picked up my cell. It’s Sookie telling me about the attack.


“I’m already on the bridge! I’m on my way!”


I was happy to get cell service. It seemed others weren’t.


As I continued onto the bridge, I looked to my right. In the distance I could see both Twin Towers on fire now. There had been a second plane crash.


I turned Howard Stern back on. He was giving a serious account of what was happening through callers who were witnessing the devastation with their own eyes.


Then I lost reception.


I got to Long Island.


Went to 7-11 to get a coffee. The people there were watching the TV. One of the towers had begun to collapse. I paid for my coffee and continued on to the hospital.


I got to my Pop’s room, where about six nurses were staring at my Pop’s TV and then few ran out crying, as my father lied sleeping in his hospital bed.


Sookie wasn’t there yet. As I waited for her at my father’s bedside, I asked the remaining nurses, “What happened?”


“The second tower collapsed.”


It was horrifying. But at least I’d made it to my father’s side.

Is That Mold On My Chanel? Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

I’m in the market for a new Chanel bag. Ever since I returned my turquoise metallic quilted 2.55 Chanel flap bag, I have regretted it. I miss it very much. I’ve even contemplated re-buying a used version of it off eBay. But couldn’t really bring myself to do it, in the event that I may end up with a fake.

That would be a disaster. I mean $3000 for a fake??

I would plotz.

It’s very difficult to tell a fake on eBay. Some of them look so good. At least in person you can get a better look.

Some consignment stores carry pre-owned Chanel bags as well. They are guaranteed. And at least you can inspect them. But I’m still having a problem committing to one.

Like, I just can’t see paying so much for a used Chanel. I’m kind of skeeving them. (I’m really not sure how to spell that.) Even the ones that are in good shape.

There’s a consignment chain based in the Hamptons. I will not name names. But I’ve been to all of them. There’s like six stores. Last summer my buddy, Yenta Hessa and I visited them all.

The last time I was in the Hamptons, I dragged her to a few of the stores to look for the Chanel flap bag I wanted.

I have decided, by the way, that I would not re-purchase the turquoise metallic quilted 2.55 Chanel flap bag. Turquoise metallic may go out of style and then I couldn’t wear it. So I’ve decided on a black jumbo classic quilted flap with gold hardware.

Gorgeous.

But expensive.

And not so easy to find.

But I was on a mission. And don’t mess with BSM when she’s on a mission.

We went from store to store, checking out the Chanels.

Nice.

But still. I couldn’t see dropping thousands on a used bag that I’m not even sure is authentic.

And is not really even exactly what I want.

But I continued to look.

Eventually, we made it to the store in Sag Harbor. Low and behold, there was a black jumbo classic quilted flap with gold hardware in the glass display!

Great.

Perfect!

Just what I was looking for.

Only $2995.

I asked to see it.

The woman removed it from the glass display and handed it to me. She started blabbing about how something something it was.

Whatever. Just hand it over lady.

I grab it.

Inspect it.

Lift the flap.

Hmmm.

What’s that greenish whitish stuff inside?

There was a strange blotch on the inside flap of the bag on the black leather.

Looked like mold to me.

I showed the sales girl, who quickly showed the manager, who quickly grabbed it and began trying to wipe the mold away.

They both made some excuse as to why the mold was there or that it wasn’t mold at all.

Yenta Hessa and I just looked at each other. Appalled and disgusted.

I left the black jumbo classic quilted flap with gold hardware there on the glass counter with the manager. I couldn’t look at another item in the store without being grossed out.

I was in the Hamptons this weekend. It rained all day. Yenta asked if I wanted to go to the consignment store.

“No thanks,” I said.