The blind leading the blind.

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It occurred to me recently that it might be helpful to start mapping the places I ramble on about in my Not New quest. Maybe you already know about all of them or maybe you don't. Either way, I get to feign public service while proving my moral (and geographical) superiority.

This current incarnation is a far cry from the final. Some day, I hope to make it pretty, well-categorized, exceedingly thorough and a permanent fixture in my sidebar. Please feel free to add your favorite Not New retail establishments to the mix. Google maps name: "To Buy or Not to Buy: San Francisco".

Let's make this into a resource for people as obsessive as we are.

Okay, as obsessive as I am.

Cheating, and the cheating cheaters who cheat.

I'm not going to try to talk my way out of this one.

I cheated.

And not just by having a clairvoyant boyfriend or living in a city where it's pretty easy to get by on previously owned wares (more on that later).

No, that wasn't enough for me.

I gladly accepted free Roxy stuff this week. Because they offered. Because I could. And because I really "needed" a few things. Like this enormous backpack I like to hide behind when I feel guilty:



(Did you know that backpacks are useful, comfortable AND they keep your hands free? I was not aware of this, having not owned one since I was an Advanced Placement automaton. But I'm old now, so sometimes I wear flat shoes and carry a backpack. Next I'll be shaving the whiskers off my chin and using rubber bands to keep my support hose up.)

That blue sleeve you see is part of my new hoodie. Which I wore with my new luxury house pants last night. After I took off my new wide-leg jeans. And ogled the new summer schmatta I'll wear in San Diego this weekend.

I know. I know. At the time, it seemed totally legal, being that it was technically a "trade" for copywriting services rendered. I can see now that this was my id getting the better of me.

I like to think of myself as his Pimp.

Say you've accidentally had an encounter with the new Williams Sonoma catalog.

Say it gave you a mean hankerin' for new albeit non-essential kitchen wares, like this:



and this:


and this:


Oh yeah, and especially this. Making cookie crusts in a puny mini-processor can really try one's patience:



This is what you do:

1) You have a lovely Saturday morning breakfast with HCB. As he lingers over his eggs and cappuccino, you casually mention that you really wish you had



Maybe you pout a little, for emphasis. (Although it's entirely unnecessary: he lives for this stuff.)

2) HCB leaves for hockey.

3) Four hours later, you come home from a run and find this little number perched wantonly on your kitchen counter, rays of warm sunshine glinting off its polished surface:



$22 at HCB's favorite GoodWill, still in plastic in its original box.

Works like a charm, every time. He's brought home, among other things: Calphalon pots and pans, countless utensils, serving pieces to match our vintage silverware, vases, a vacuum, mod candlestick holders, a brand new blender and even aforementioned mini-processor, which he purchased for $2 and then sharpened the blade himself.

He's also gathered myriad household items for Alyssa, found Liza a replacement for her Grandma's kerchunker, gifted Rene with a coiled garden hose, and provided Grandma with a new lightweight vacuum.

Need something? Call me.

...I just want you to know.

A few days ago, I received a somewhat frantic voicemail from Tracey in London saying, "First you blog that you're extremely depressed, and then you don't post for days and days AND you don't answer your cell phone. I'm calling an ambulance to come to Ugly Betty, and if you're not dead or unconscious when they get there, I'm going to be really pissed off."

Okay, that might not have been exactly what she said, but if I had been dead and her voicemail had ended up in my cold case file like that show on A&E, my version would've added dramatic flair to the programming.

Then, WHILE I WAS WRITING THIS VERY POST, I received the following email from Rene:

you ok?
your last blog post was semi-suicidal. and nothing since. all ok? your audience is worried about you.
xo

You love me, you really love me! I'm not dead, nor even depressed anymore. But I am sincerely sorry for leaving Tracey and Rene, et al to stare at a gardenia bud for a whole week. I've been very busy with work. If by work I mean being chased by a telephoto lens through a Sebastopol farmhouse, gallivanting around SFO in Lederhosen, and plotting my online (no paper waste here!) portfolio. I'm a hustler, Baby.

They can hear me.

Convenient Symbol of Hope

Look!



All that grammatical zeal must be working.

Guilt

I feel bad for being such a downer.

Here, read this post from Dooce. The part where she fears that her editor is going to write things like "YOU ARE DUMB" and "SIT ON IT" really spoke to me.

Care For a Sip of Whine?

I have a dark secret.

I try to keep it lighthearted around here, but I've been in a funk for days now. Maybe even weeks, intermittently.

I am a person of perennial sunshine, normally. So why am I so empty, petulant, tormented by ennui?

The weather is blue skies and hallelujah, so it's not S.A.D.

My workouts have been inconsistent, but I'm still getting exercise. And to paraphrase Linda Evangelista, I don't mind a little zaftig, because everybody loves boobs.

Work is fine.

HCB is HCB.

This is my theory:

I think I am actually, literally, going through buying withdrawal.

Allow me to use MATH AND SCIENCE to prove it.

In 2006, the most recent year for which data is available, I spent a total of $10,880.52 on clothes, shoes, handbags and housewares.

[Mental note: who needs psychotherapy or Catholicism when you've got the Interweb?]

That's $906.71 a month in giddy spending.

If you measure your money in units of shoes, like I do, that's a really cute pair of platforms every week.

Collecting all those pretty things is a natural proclivity of mine, but looking at it from this vantage point, maybe it's also a coping mechanism. Having the latest and greatest makes me feel in control. Assuages my insecurities. Reinforces my sense of self.

And it's proven science that for some people, the very act of shopping releases dopamine to the brain. I am most definitely one of those people. So I haven't had a good hit in almost three months now.

Vintage shopping has its own highs (Triumphant bargains! The thrill of the hunt!), but you just as often walk away empty-handed and disappointed. Unlike regular retail, you can't just lock eyes on something across the room (or the web, or the catalog, or the magazine page) and KNOW that it will be yours. My Aunt Diane always says that was what was so exciting about the '70's: she was talking about men, but I think it must be a similar feeling.

I prefer to focus on the positive, but it wouldn't be honest of me to leave out this part of the experience. Nothing feels glass-half-full right now. I just hope that if this foul mood is a withdrawal symptom, it'll wear off, and soon.

I wish the web were scratch 'n' sniff.

Friends, my gardenia has bloomed once more. And that's not some sort of naughty euphemism. I mean, really, it's blooming. Look:



I bought this little lady almost three years ago. That romantic spring, she filled the whole flat with her heady fragrance of possibility, but never since. I don't know if it was the liquid nitrogen I started feeding her or the impassioned diatribes about the fundamentals of effective narrative arc, but this spring, something gave her the soul food she needed to emerge from the winter of her discontent.

If you had been an anthropologist observing my behavior over the last few days, you would've seen something like this:

Write for ten minutes.
Check gardenia bud.
Adjust blinds for optimum sunlight.
Sprinkle soil with plant food.
Back to desk.
Read perezhilton.com for ten minutes.
Glance at bud from desk.
Pretend to brainstorm for headlines while staring at plant from across room.
Adjust blinds again.
Sniff slowly unfurling petals.
Turn pot to get maximum leaf exposure.
Mist foliage with spritzer bottle.
Check perezhilton again.
Repeat.

There's just something about watching living things grow. It's intensely gratifying. And a flowering plant is like magic with roots.

I'm not sure what this has to do with not buying stuff, except that it's a very effective distraction, and I am supporting the production of oxygen. Just think how happy I'd be if I had a mini fruit orchard like those people from the Times article I just read.

In the meantime, I'm lecturing these two guys on cadence and sentence structure:

The Back Story.

See, HCB doesn't really approve of cut flowers. If he were a public servant, he would bring the Freedom of Flora Act before congress, guaranteeing all blooms safety from the brutality of cutting shears.

But he went away to Baja to bump along dirt roads, wash down fish tacos with multiple Tecates, and take pictures of his motorcycle in barren succulent-strewn locales. So I was free to litter Ugly Betty with flora sans ridicule. And oh boy did I bring it.

In fact, I find now that I sorta can't stop. Every time I look up from my computer screen, scanning my inner thesaurus for yet another 'innovation' synonym, I catch a glimpse of something bright and happy. Which makes me feel bright and happy.

And I tell you what, buying flowers is the morphine to my clothing addiction. Or maybe it's the crack. There are real, non-shears related human and environmental perils to flower harvesting, so I do my level best to buy organic (which is no small feat).

So, yeah, it's yet another buying decision that must be made carefully. The best thing we can all do is start asking our favorite florists to buy organic, so we can enjoy a truly guilt-free purchase.

How About Plant Week Instead?

I LOVE Ranunculus, and not just because it is the most fun-to-spell word in the universe. I always assumed these babies were related to one of my other favorite flowers, the Peony, but my Sunset Western Garden Book (published in 1988, and purchased from the estate of a long-dead Palm Springs resident) begs to differ. Apparently, Ranunculus (try it with me!) are relatives of the Buttercup. How quaint!

Anyway, if these vibrant blooms don't inspire you to Just Live Dammit!, then I am worried about the condition of your soul. May the wonders of Mother Nature never cease. Her color palettes are even better than Mickey's.

Did I say Fiction?

Silly me. It seems I have committed the cardinal sin of entertainment: I have abandoned my audience. I may be bored of beating my Not New horse to death, but it seems that most of you are not. (Since there are only ten of you, I use the word "most" with confidence.)

I mean, did Bugs Bunny tire of the refrain "That's All, Folks"? Does George Zimmer get sick of guaranteeing suit purchases? Is Avril Lavigne totally over singing "Sk8tr Boi"? (Probably not, but I, for one, am tired of her outfits.)

Does Barbie refuse to wear heels? NO. No, she does not. She must not. She, well, cannot.


[Barbie would like to offer you a conciliatory cupcake.]

You have spoken, and I shall obey. No more confusing, punctuation-less fictional narratives. I'm back on track.

CORRECTION: It has been pointed out to me that it was in fact Porky Pig who uttered the phrase "That's all, Folks" and not Bugs. Of course. What's up with me, Doc?

The Shoegazer Chronicles: Part One

First I am going to find a bench or a big man or a taxi or a motorcade and then I am going to do some serious reflection on this friendship I mean I think Sandra could had been a little more specific when she said we were going to walk the mall because all she told me was that a lot of other girls were gonna be there, and camera crews and stuff, and that it was important to participate if I cared about my body, so I figured that like, there was like a model search at Tyson's Corner or something which I guess doesn't make that much sense in hindsight since Sandra isn't really *into* fashion or whatever, but I thought maybe that pair of Citizens I finally made her buy last week had transformed her somehow because great jeans can do that, but unfortunately nothing could be further from the truth because she picks me up this morning in her Prius and she's just wearing like old nasty...omg i can't even say it Wr. Wr. Wrrang Wranglers...and she's got like weird slogans on her tee shirt and looking all...loud and mad and stuff, and I am all, here we go again, I've been sucked into another one of Sandra's perminazi tirades And I am all, I am NOT going to stand outside Nordstrom again with that PeTRIE sign but then we're headed down GW Parkway and I finally figure out that we're going to THAT Mall and I'm just glad at least that I'm wearing the best Chloe knockoffs of the season, you know, 'cause of all the camera crews and I'm thinking like Oh! like I wonder if that lady Jeanne Beker will be there! I could totally end up on Fashion Television! but it's been two hours already and we're halfway between the big dude and the tall pointy thing with the swimming pool, and I've waved at lots of camera crews but Jeanne is NOWHERE to be found...meanwhile, I seriously might have to have both pinky toes amputated because I haven't been able to feel them for like one hour and fifty-seven minutes and if that happens I'm totally going to make Sandra give me hers but at least I am a) totally the cutest girl here and b) I can totally see over everybody's heads and C) ANYBODY WHO TRIES TO STEP ON THESE TOES WILL NEVER ENJOY ANOTHER PEDICURE AS LONG AS THEY LIVE. DID YOU HEAR THAT, BITCHES? I WILL STOMP. SO STEP THE HELL BACK. I am totally going to need a deep conditioning treatment after this.

The Truth, or Something Like It.

I was going to spend this week celebrating the contents of my closet, rustling through my archives and sharing my daily rediscovery process.

But here it is:

I am SO bored of talking about myself.

Writing in one's own voice is a treat for a mercenary wordsmith such as myself.

But the central presumption of the blogosphere will never cease to perplex me: that somebody other than myself and my grandma and my very patient HCB wants to hear the minutiae of my life.

Grandma did always say I was special, but nobody is that interesting.

So, inspired by this woman, whom I discovered through a very random turn of events, I hereby name this Fiction Week at someonemightcare.

I have never written fiction before, so I may very well be spelling D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R one agonizing post at a time. Or you won't hear from me until the week is over, like the folks at NaNoWriMo.

At the very least, it will be interesting. As a bonus, I'll sneak in descriptions of my shoe selections somehow.

You know, because committing to writing fiction isn't hard enough.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery.

Sometimes it's no fun being all pious and principled and punctilious and all those other words that start with P. So I figure a minor transgression here and there is necessary. For instance, I'm eating Salsa Verde Dorito's right now. And I was really living on the edge last night when I perused the West Elm catalog before bed.



Then I went to a meeting this morning dressed like this:



It's like the subconscious reverse of that Domino column:



Alas, inspiration can come from anywhere. At least for once a catalog inspired reuse. And I got to call the bluff of all those downtown shoe whores by trotting out my D&Gs.

I will admit, though, that I also came away from the experience with a lingering desire for this rug:

Only New and/or Blue.

I wasn't entirely straight with you yesterday. Last month, I bought one third of a brand new dishwasher. It was a wedding gift for Liza and Dave. I realize the following information does nothing to absolve me of my guilt, but I did make the card announcing said gift from entirely recycled/reused/previously owned materials.

You have to ask yourself, in these circumstances, WWEPD?

I mean, they always MENTION old and borrowed, but I'm not going to be the one to bring it.

Salvation, courtesy of Vivienne Westwood

My friend Kendra just sent me this link from treehugger.com that has (almost) completely restored the self-esteem I lost last week ogling all those people in cute shoes.

"It's official darling, buying new clothes is so out of fashion. All the smartest women are trading names of dressmakers, dyers, shoemakers and cleaners. They are tweaking, pinning and reviving old clothes to make them look up to date. It's a reaction to the disposable fast fashion rage (and London Fashion Week?). The lifespan of a cheap garment is about six months--apparently charity shops are turning down these clothes because they don't survive more than three washes. Even Vivienne Westwood says: "I offer no choice but to ask for the end of indiscriminate consumption. If you have to choose something, save up and choose well."

I AM trendy after all! It's been one of my brand attributes for so long that I was starting to develop an identity crisis.

Quicken Earth February: Okay Fine

You know, the simple act of naming this monthly exercise Quicken Earth automatically predisposes me to avoid it. Just goes to show, a rose by any other name smells a lot better than Quicken. (My second Shakespeare cliché in a week. Maybe it's all the historical fiction. Should cut back on the Philippa Gregory.)

SINS
I am pure as the driven snow.


ADMISSIBLE NECESSITIES



(PREVIOUSLY OWNED) FRIVOLITIES
Marc by Marc Jacobs dress, which turned out quite well, thank you.
Marc by Marc Jacobs wool shawl top, very chic and only $35!
Velvet brand shrug sweater, pleasantly boob-framing and only $15!
Ruby red Pashima shawl purchased yesterday on second trip to Cris in a week. A rip-off at $69, but I needed a fix. Must monitor this behavior carefully.


TECHNICALITIES
I ran out of lipstick and foundation, and used an old Sephora gift certificate to replace them. So between the fact that makeup is clearly a necessity, and cash for said items was technically exchanged last year, I say I'm off the hook.

My aunt felt sorry for me and gave me a watch. A used watch.

And I lost my sunglasses while I was in the OC, so my friend Pat, who works at Oakley, gave me a replacement pair. I call that evening my score with the universe.


ABSTENTIONS

A


to replace my



because it's been moody all week, refusing to ring, freezing screens and erasing text messages. Also, I'm starting to feel like I did back in fifth grade, when I was the only girl in school who didn't have a Cabbage Patch Kid.

A


to replace my



because it skips whole albums and froze my iTunes yesterday, so that I had to restore it to its factory settings. It would be so much more exciting to load up an iPod that's not so terribly gauche.


And a


to replace my



be ca aa a use wa tch ing

vi

de

ooo s on


line

t a k e s so


ve ve ve ry


loooong.

Carrie is beyond the cougar phase; she's a saber tooth tiger in a leopard world.

I feel like I'm in Mercury Retrograde: Extreme Electronic Edition. HCB reckons that my personal charge has shifted, causing aforementioned devices to falter. But this is all starting to sound a little too New Age, even for me.

Career Pros and Cons

Pros:
-endless intellectual stimulation
-seeing my name in print
-yoga at noon
-SEP IRAs
-pajama pants all day (don't need new jeans)
-M&Ms for lunch (vegetarian)
-just me and my Microsoft Word
-too busy working to buy new stuff

Cons:
-endless administrative tasks
-Quicken (for which I now have two varieties and am thusly avoiding both)
-pajama pants all day (sloth)
-M&Ms for lunch (fat sloth)
-just me, Microsoft Word, and a furrow in my brow so deep it's visible from Google Earth
-too busy working all weekend to scour neighborhood estate sales and massive museum fundraisers