The Six Month Challenge

I am an amazing saver.  Amazing.  Less in the sense of given $100, I will put $50 away for a rainy day, but more in the sense of "See that gorgeous red DVF wrap dress that retails for $385 at Bloomies? I scored it for $200 on Gilt!"  That's 185 dollars saved!  I've probably saved well over $10K in the last year alone....  Which begs me to ask the question, "How much have I spent?"  Come to think of it,  am I actually a better spender than I am saver?

Our new status as a single income family has forced both T and I to take a closer look at our budget -   something we don't particularly enjoy doing.  That's not to say we've lived a financially irresponsible life.  We save and we certainly don't overspend or live beyond our means, but we also enjoy our hard earned money and seize opportunities to travel, eat good food and drink good wine.

At first pass, it became scarily clear that our monthly surplus, meaning what's left over after the bills are paid, but before the groceries and that to-die-for tuxedo-inspired jacket are bought, has decreased  significantly.  Not only did I give up a particularly shitty commute, I gave up a particularly generous paycheck.  Suddenly ringing up a giant Banana Republic bill any given month doesn't seem like the best idea.  Was it ever?

It doesn't help that T and I are CHAMPION shoppers.  If shopping were an Olympic sport, he and I would be the team to beat.   In fact, I knew I was in love the first time we set out for a day of shopping and didn't return home until 9 hours later exhausted, our arms weighted down with bags, basking in the feeling of success that comes with a 20% off coupon or the Nordstrom half-yearly sale.  In the not-so-long-ago world of 10-14 hour work days where I would see our son for a mere 1 hour total on the average, shopping was my one release.  So much so that when I started my most recent job, I challenged myself to not wear the same outfit for as long as humanly possible.  I went two full months.  It felt damn good.

Now that I'm forced to retire my credit cards for a while (in addition to my over-priced coffee habit, the notion that wine is to be ordered by the case and the every-so-often decision to call a car service home), I've decided to challenge myself in a new way.  The 6 month challenge means that I will go 6 full months without buying a single item of new clothing. Ouch.  Ever the self-proclaimed fashionista, I'm choosing to look at this as an opportunity rather than a challenge.  I now have the opportunity to revisit my wardrobe, find new ways to wear things, cross items over into the next season and re-werk (2 snaps up) what I've got in a new way - the ground rules are as follows:

• No new clothing purchases at retail (Full disclosure, I've fallen off the wagon already when I bought a new pair of shorts and tank yesterday after a trip to the mall to return something for T.  Whoops.  I am now 24 hours shopping free, do I get one of those sobriety chips?  Also, if I return something does that mean I can get something new as long as it costs the same, if not less?  Say it with me - Loophole!)

• Free or swapped items are OK (I will be scouring Craigslist for that girl just dying for someone to take those ruby ankle strap platforms off her hands.)

• I will allow myself to purchase accessories (within reason of course, there's no new LV bag in my future).  Accessories may just be what gets me through.

• Shoes are only allowed if they are an absolute necessity (I certainly don't need a 5th pair of black closed-toe platform pumps, but if my snow boots suddenly sprout a hole, I obviously have to replace them.  And the new pair OBVIOUSLY has to be cute.)

• I am allowed to use the $110 credit I have on Rent-the-Runway should we be invited to a worthy event.

Those are the rules and this is me taking a stance against consumerism, saving the planet by reusing any particularly lovely discarded items and living a simpler life.  I'll be sure to share any hidden gems I find hiding in back of my closet or any strokes of genius that allow me to repurpose something that has been worn to death.  Six months feels like a long time, but I always say go big or go home.  Game on.

My Annual, Un-Original, I Hate Tourists, Rant

Warning:  What you are about to read is not new.  You've heard it all before from many different people, with many different points of view, in various states of annoyance.  But as I sit here, fighting the urge to bash my head against the wall and thanking my lucky stars it's Cyber Monday so I don't have to venture out and deal with the "Old Gals Club" who took the train in from Lon-guy-land for the day to do some shopping and see a show, I can not resist the urge to purge myself of my annual Holiday Season Rage.

Living in Manhattan allows me the daily joy of taking my stress out on the other 8 million people making their way through the concrete jungle.  I take pleasure in bumping into someone on the sidewalk just a little too hard because both of us were determined to claim our space and too stubborn to move 1/2 a foot to the right.  When the UN is in session, I relish the opportunity to yell at a delegate and let him know that "here in New York", we let women through the door first.  And, by far, my favorite is giving cab drivers the combination "Middle-Finger-F-ck You A$$hole-yell" for almost running me over as I cross the street after the Don't Walk light is already lit. This is a pedestrian city and pedestrians have the right of way (unless it's the rare instance where I am the one driving, in which case you better move your a$$ off the crosswalk because the light is green and I will run you over - don't test me).  While this may seem overly aggressive and unacceptable, to most people here it's unspoken, understood and perfectly normal.  I don't really have a problem with that b1tch who slammed into my shoulder and who's hair I subsequently yelled looked like a bird's nest.  She needed it.  I needed it.  We got it out of our systems and we could probably become best friend's over cocktails.  It's just how we roll.

Enter Late-November.  The temperature drops, the SALE signs go up, the mood starts getting festive and tourists invade.  Fifth Avenue becomes inundated with funny accents, odd clothes, and the unmistakeable calling card of the Mid-West, blue eyeliner and bad hair.  So last Wednesday at 9am, I made my way across 34th Street to beat the crowds at Macy's.  Always tempted by the call of cheap jeans and long T Shirts that I pass off as dresses, I pushed my way through a group of tourists doing the dreaded five-across-block-the-whole-sidewalk move and ducked into Forever 21.  What awaited inside filled me with an incomprehensible mix of fright, naseau and hysterics.  Like Alice in Wonderland I gasped at the cast of characters that surrounded me in what is usually my turf.  

Forever21 had been invaded by the throngs of bubbly Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Participants dragging their Mom's excitedly through a store they can find at any mall in their Ohio suburb, beyond thrilled to fight crowds and pay sales tax on items they could get cheaper at home, just because the store is bigger.  I winced each time my delicate ears were met with southern twangs practicing cheers and the attack continued on my nose with the unmistakeable scent of Jean Nate wafting off every 45 year old, bleach blonde mom who's fake smiles seethed jealously and vicarious living as they chased their teenage daughters around the store stopping only to contemplate if there's any chance they could get into a mini skirt like that just one more time.  Determined to grab a pair of jeans and give these girls the kind of New York experience they could go home and tell their friends about, I bumped, pushed and told-off my way through the store to the enormous line at the cash register.  Immediately I picked up the phone and called someone to b1tch loudly and make funny comments about the Middle American Travesties I was surrounded with.  

After 15 minutes, I was off the phone, still standing on line and in pain.  If I heard one more squeel, screetch, or Oh-My-Word-Look-At-These-Earrings!, I was going to lose it.  It was at that point that I looked at the door longingly, dropped the jeans and ran for my life.  They had beaten me.  Here I stood a few year veteran of New York City taken down by a gaggle of high-schoolers with high pony tails and ribbons in their hair.  Dejected, defeated and determined to get the hell out of Herald Square, I trudged across 34th Street trying to make my way past Fabio, Donatella and their four beautiful Italian children, all of whom strolled slowly, seductively smoking cigarettes blocking any chance I had of getting to the east side as quickly as I hoped. Once again, I was reminded of the simple fact that I Hate Tourists.

I Hate Them! I Hate Them! I Hate Them!  Now, please excuse me while I stomp my feet, clench my fists and am left no choice but to do my shopping online.  Wah.

Dressing for the Job - Adventures in Vintage

They say you should dress for the job you want, not the job you have.  In my case,  I need to start dressing for both the job I have and the job I want.  And that job is no job or, even better, self employment.  Now, after five years of long work weeks and hard-partying weekends, my wardrobe consists of boring work clothes (black dresses, button downs, Express Editor pants) and skanky dresses that will soon be inappropriate for me to wear ever (or possibly already are).  

I've always struggled with my casual look and have never focused on it too much.  I had no reason to.  Most of my weekend hours were spent in one of my skanky dresses and the rest of them I was probably either at the gym or too hungover to care what I wore to brunch.  Now that my days are going to be ruled by street clothes and I'm determined to keep it this way, so I figure I'd better go out and put together a wardrobe that screams "I am not the 9 to 5!" Something appropriate for strolling around town hoping for a glance of Lindsay Lohan hopping into her black Range Rover so I can later tell people we hang out in the same neighborhoods. 

After scanning my closet I quickly realized that my black turtle neck just wasn't going to cut it all winter.  So, armed with a sense of wonder, 50 bones and a Googled list of NYC Thrift stores, I headed out this afternoon to piece together my new 'drobe.  After picking up my new iPod Nano that I scored for $65 on Craigslist, I headed over to Cheap Jacks, the first stop on my Thrifty Tour.  In my head I composed a short list of must haves to craft my casual-persona.  A signature piece of Jewelry (something large and probably gold for around my neck), a bad-ass hat and a warm, slightly worn, jacket for the upcoming winter.  

Once inside Cheap Jacks, I was a little intimated by rack after rack of clothing - the place is huge - and headed over to the T Shirts.  Already detouring from my list, in a moment of temporary insanity, I picked up an Oregon Trail T-shirt and thought, "Eureka, this is the staple of my new look."  I quickly came to my senses and realized that I didn't want my new look to resemble that of a 30-rock writers room schlub.  Even as I eyed the racks of coats to my right, I couldn't resist the pull of the mounds of dresses to my left and veered even further off course.  I browsed through the 1950s, the '60,s and the '80s until to my surprise, it was the 70s rack that I pulled my first two items off of.  A plum-velvet fitted number with a scalloped neck and an easy-moving summery black number.  Striking at the right moment a friendly staffer offered to start a fitting room for me, and even though the one thing I do not need is dresses, I happily obliged.  I tried to to focus and spend some time looking at the type of items I actually need, but the pull of that little purple hotness was too much for me, so without picking up another item I all but sprinted to the fitting room.  Both dresses were glorious, but luckily or unluckily for me were too rich for my blood (the purple one was $65 and the black was $155).  That was when I learned that, even at Cheap Jacks, my tastes supersede my budget.  Empty handed, I thanked the helpful clerk who offered to pull some more dresses I don't need, and headed out the door.

My next stop was Housing Works on 23rd street.  The floor was bustling and I was convinced I'd score something in here and do a good deed at the same time since all of their proceeds go to charity.  Within two seconds of entering I scooped up a vintagey navy-blue Chuck Taylor jacket that was a measly $15 and thought, "Viola."  In true vintage-shopper style I ripped off my coat and dropped it, along with my bag, on the floor in the middle of the store and found the nearest mirror.  Much to my chagrin, the jacket was just too big and I haven't been unemployed long enough to learn how to sew, so I hung it back on the rack.  The rest of the selection at Housing Works was limited and reminded me of the bags of clothes I donate every couple of months, so I decided to move on.  

Continuing down 23rd street, I set my sites on my next target, 2nd Time Around - a Salvation Army outpost.  I thought to myself that I better at least find a good belt here.  I stepped in the door, saw the garbage bags of clothing lining the floors and promptly stepped back, turned around and left.  I can handle used clothing when it's on a rack, seeing it in bags that match the ones that I dump my snotty tissues into was too much for me to handle.  

Just down the street on Third Avenue was my final stop of the day, Vintage - The Thrift Store. Vintage is small, musty and slightly intimidating to me.  I had completely lost my sense of purpose, any grasp of my list and my mojo so when I saw the bus careening up the street, I dropped the driving gloves that I-don't-need-but-was-looking-at-anyway and sprinted to catch the M101.  

Safely on my way back to my generic Murray Hill neighborhood, I breathed a sigh of relief.  Sure, my shopping day was a bust, but I had a new iPod Nano in my bag and burning desire to get home, make myself some hot chocolate and upload the crap out of it.  I still have a few more vintage stores on my list and plan on pounding the pavement again this week in the hopes that I will find success.  Until then, I'll have to rock the same three outfits over and over again and just call them my "signature look" until I find the perfect $50 wardrobe.

Suggestions are welcome.