Killing Me Softly With Your Sales Reductions

Last week, I was in the grip of a delirium which all women go through at some point or another. It was like those fevers which, once you have it, never really goes away, only lying dormant in your system to resurface with a screaming vengeance weeks, months or even years later after the initial infection. Some women experience it in fits and starts. Others suffer from it all their lives. It was the "I-need-to-shop-get-the-hell-out-of-my-way" fever which afflicts the female of the species from time to time. It’s not a painful condition, so long as you don’t look at your credit card statements all at once. It’s not fatal either, unless someone tries to snatch the last piece of the I-NEED-to-have-it-skirt in your size from your shaking hands. But yes, it can only be treated by giving in to it.

Mind you, some advocates say that you should just dip your toe in the factory-outlet water so you can satiate the crazy urge to spend as much money as possible without succumbing to total madness. The damage is controlled and limited, and you and your bank balance recover relatively unscarred.

But right at the peak of the fever, Ego delivered temptation like the snake and the Apple in the Garden. And my fate was sealed. It would have to be cured through the most drastic way possible. We were talking about his expeditions to shop (Ego is one of those rare enlightened males who actually LIKES shopping, is able to provide lucid, pertinent advice on whether you should get the black or the red, and yet remains utterly, totally homophobic.) and his sheer frustration at not being able to get anything, even at the hallowed grounds of Zara, and he dropped the bomb by saying, "And now that they’re on sale, all the stuff I liked isn’t there!"

Blink. Pause as my brain processes the information.

"Zara’s on sale?"

He gives me a narrow look, like he couldn’t believe I was so clueless. "Yeah, they’re on further reduction. Mango too." The thought seemed to bring a little happy glow to his eyes.

"Further reductions?"

The two words echoed in the chambers of my mind like someone had fired a fucking cannon in my skull.

Ego continued talking, but it was too late, my head was filled with visions of Zara. Specifically, me, clad in Zara, catwalking (geddit?) my way to work in killer Zara oxblood stilts and those fabulous tweed skirts and a crisp white skirt with the perfect black velvet corsage. God, what I wouldn’t give for winter weather so I could slip on the perfect belted coat on top of the whole thing. I was beginning to sweat, caught fast in the grip of shopping fever.
I informed The Boy of the happy event. The Boy is, like Ego, a true metrosexual who revels in the joys of Zara. He was practically rabid with joy at the news, and determined that we would have to go. Like, as soon as possible. Being a Friday, Saturday was slated as shopping day.

Unfortunately, the shopping fever seemed to translate into a real one, and when the Boy came over, all togged out and looking pretty, I was half asleep in bed, feeling like I was about to go into hibernation. Unusually for him, The Boy was full of energy, and obviously champing at the bit to get to do his credit card some serious damage. Bouncing up at down on the bed, he insisted, "No, you can sleep if you want!" with a crazed look in his eyes. It was very sweet of him to insist that I should rest because I was so tired, but after he started bouncing my favorite Day-Glo-pink marshmallow pillow off my tummy, I grumpily told him fine, for god's sake, and fuck off, we’d bloody go shopping (yeah, like it was going to be a great hardship on my part…). He protested, but feebly, and off we went to find the biggest, quietest Zara we could to lay waste to our wallets.

I slept all the way, and had to be dragged out of unconsciousness once we reached Mecca. But once we were ensconced inside the hallucinogenic surroundings of racks and racks of clothes, all marked with those bright red sales tags (with not one, but TWO cancellations to signify Further Reductions) my fatigue evaporated like an insincere apology.

In roughly the time it takes for The Flash to blink, me and The Boy were running around like squirrels hopped up on meth, practically squeaking with excitement. I was laden down with two pairs of shoes which just happened to be in my size, two tops, three skirts, one dress, and shuttling back and forth between the racks and the dressing room like an Olympian. I think the I-need-to-shop-fever was made particularly bad because I had been spending copious amounts of money on everyone else for birthdays and Christmas, and I hadn’t bought ANYTHING for moi in ages. Not even a puny little lip gloss. Not even flip flops. Nada. Zip, Zero. Zilch.

There was a bad moment, thought, when the poor Boy spotted the boots he had bought for me for Christmas (not even three weeks before) and they were on sale. "Don’t look!" I yelled, trying to grab the boots away from him, but it was too late. The Boy made a strangled sort of howling noise and nearly fell over. I think they were cheaper by about a hundred bucks. Ouch. (But I love them very very much, and he was a sweetie to buy them for me at full price)



But he soon recovered, and appeared with a look-at-the-big-dinosaur--Grog- killed smile and clutching a pair of distressed boots he found on sale, and wanting some fashion advice. Playing obedient girlfriend, I followed the Boy around the men’s section of Zara to pick out gay-worthy clothes add to his wardrobe. (The men’s sections is about ten million times less interesting than the women’s. Where are the sequins? The embroidery, the lace, the velvet and satin and silk? Then again, I would start being seriously worried if they were all there and The Boy still wanted to shop there. I like my boys playing for the opposite team.). After we added a few shirts to The Boy’s armfuls of clothes, he went to change while I waited outside and fell a little more in love with the clothes I clutched possessively in my arms. While The Boy modelled a very very sexy pink shirt (it was, I swear) we spotted a very louche looking figure pecking desultorily at the racks. "Hey, it’s K.J", said my eagle-eyed Boy.

Looking very Jack-Sparrow-ish with full growth of chin scruff and moustache, K.J joined our little shopping party, although he obviously wasn’t caught in the same frenzy which gripped me and The Boy. The Boy was happy because it meant he would have someone to talk to while I pranced about in the dressing room. I was happy because it meant yet another person to ask that irritating "Should I get this?" rhetorical question all women ask their friends while shopping. (it’s rhetorical since no matter what your friend says, even if she thinks you look like you are wearing a dead howler monkey around your hips, you will get it if you really like it). K.J was happy because of the propect of people who also ate like hogs keeping him company for dinner.

After prancing in and out of the dressing room several times (and once refusing to come out at all - the shopping haze cleared enough to realize that the long-sleeved V-necked flower-sprigged red-and-pink prairie dress I had on would get me laughed out of town), we marched off the cashiers, closed our eyes, and signed our life savings away.
The damage?

One silk skirt in water-washed, dreamy hues, which swishes around my knees, gives me an ass and make my feel like a fuckin’ supermodel. A supermodel who’s had her hair electrified, is missing about three feet in height and about three hundred pounds over weight anyway (I know I’m skinny, but the new breed of supermodels are so skeletal they look like they occupy a negative space. They weigh like, -230 lbs). I had to buy it. When I walked out of the dressing room to sashay in front of The Boy and K.J, the looks on their faces were extremely gratifying. I didn’t even get all the way out before they were saying yes yes, get it. Immediately. Cost? $100. On further discount too. God.


One two-layered chiffon skirt which has a completely bizarre feathery black trim around the cummerbund-like waist which I fully intend to cut-off once I can be arsed. Semi-transparent and floaty, I have no clue what to wear it with and where. It’s singularly inappropriate for work, unless you work as a ballerina/fashion model and like flashing your knickers at random strangers. And the feathery bits are ridiculous. The Boy gave it a bewildered/disparaging look and said, "It looks like a very nice dress which your dogs ripped in half." But it’s terribly Carrie-SATC-like, and once I thought of it in those terms, I couldn’t bear to be parted with it. Even though it gives me massive hips. Love is blind. Cost - $40.

One pair of skinny little expresso-colored ankle-wrap stilettos which do this fascinating cross-wrappy thing which appeals to my inner fashion geek. Amber stones along a central T-strap. My eyes glazed over and I started thinking in Grogette-speak when I saw them. You know, "Grogette like. Pretty. Buy." Cost - $70.



One pair of rasperry-gelato -coloured suede kitten-heeled shoes with an ankle strap and flower cutouts. They are totally ridiculous shoes. The minute I saw them I thought I had to have them. I have nothing in my closet which match them. They are totally not my style. I bought them anyway. The Boy had a funny look on his face when he saw them, even though he said they were cute. I look like a retard when I wear them. Shopping fever is dangerous. Cost - $40.



The Boy as enriched his wardrobe via the boots which he has since worn faithfully every chance he gets, abandoning previously-loved buys from Pull & Bear and Zara, and two really hot shirts. Rraawwr.

K.J didn’t buy anything. Spoilsport.

The boys later took advantage of my lack-of-nicotine high by leading me astray in the supermarket. They would point at sausages and cheese and stuff just to watch me bounce around form counter to counter, crooning over Port Salut cheese (ooooh, 50% fat! I like that) and cheese krackers (oooohhh, cheeeeeese) and sniggering. It wasn’t funny, guys.

We decided to reward ourselves after such an exhausting workout (biceps, from all the lifting of heavy silks, signing of credit cards etc) by eating our own body weight at a churruscaria joint, then staggering out. My memories are blurry after that, because I was asleep all the way. The hyper wore off and I suffered total system failure. I dimly remember some chick looking through the window of the car looking worried. I scowled at her and she freaked. I think she thought I was dead.

I do remember watching Ocean’s Twelve, although I think I fell asleep at one point.

The fever hasn’t subsided totally though. Flush with alleged bonus and prospective pay raise, my latest acquisition is a perfectly tailored grey-and-pink plaid-design dress with black lace trim from Mango which looks like secretary by vintage Tom Ford. The justification is that since you give up smoking, and smoking costs $10 a pack, $10 x 52 weeks = the licence to spend about $1000 a month. Slinky maths, you gotta love it. More credit card damage to follow.

Coming up soon to a theatre near you - Slinky and the Boy's night in Little Odessa. Stay tuned.


The Slinky Cat says save me from myself