My Pumps

What I gonna get to match these pumps?

These cute little classy high heel pumps ?

I'ma gonna get get get these shoes,

Get these shoes I love so much.

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps,

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my lovely high heel pumps.

You may call me lazy,

Stillettos drive me crazy,

I just can't dig those flip flops,

Designer's such a rip off,

Mizrahi and J Lo,

Gucci, Ferragamo,

Coach, Dolce, Sarto,

they cost way too much dough.

Sister, I ain't fakin',

my bank account is breakin'

Open toe, closed toe

I try to stop but I can't help it

So I keep on spendin'

An' this is the beginning

I feel like I'm winnin'

Payless BOGO now I'm grinnin'.

My pumps (pumps), my pumps, my pumps, my pumps (pumps)

I love my high heel pumps (pumps)

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps (pumps),

My pumps they got me

Lookin' for clearance,

(Oh) lookin' through those outlet shops, and hitting auctions online

Lookin' for clearance,

(Oh) lookin' through those outlet shops, and findin', those savings

What I gonna do with all those pumps?

All those pumps I bought last week?

It would make make make you freak

To see the pumps I bought last week

My closet ain't near big enough

To hold all of my shoes and stuff

It would make make make you jump

To see my pile of high heel pumps

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps, (what!)

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my lovely high heel pumps.

Shopping Trip (part 2)

In part one, Chester and Denise went on a shopping trip to "the GAP." It didn't go well: they purchased nothing. In part two, Denise is trying on clothes, trying to find a suitable blouse to wear with jeans. We join them at Aéropostale, the mall-based specialty retailer of casual apparel for young people and proud owner of the most hideous name in all of clothing.

Chester followed Denise around like an indentured lackey. Unlike the speed and dexterity with which she selected jeans for Chester to try, Denise took forever to pick out a suitable top. Some she commented on snidely, others she reached for and touched suspiciously, still others she regarded with an air of disdain that Chester would never understand. Chester knew he never wanted to be looked at that way by anyone and thought about advising the management that they burn the offending clothing item. He almost raised the suggestion to Denise, but was worried that she might secretly like that blouse and be upset with him for requesting its destruction.

Chester was so confused!

Onward Denise and Chester marched, darting around like bees in the spring, from rack to rack and mannequin to mannequin. Denise found parts of the store Chester never dreamed existed and could never have found without her help.

It was a full twenty minutes of "shopping" before Denise selected something she liked. To Chester, it looked exactly like all the other blouses that Denise had disdained with her visage or besmirched with her lips, but he smiled and nodded, relieved that the expedition had finally found some traction. Armed with her one item, Denise went back to her hunting. And Chester returned to his role as the trailing lackey.

Denise's second clothing choice was being worn by a mannequin. Although the item was available on the racks, it was only in Denise's size on the store display-person. She promptly started undressing the poor creature.

That's when Chester got really scared. It's not like he'd never seen an unclothed mannequin before (I mean, what's there to see?), but the idea of stripping one down in public ran contrary to his conservative upbringing. Granted, every mannequin should have the right to be unclothed, but it should do so in the privacy of its home, not in the middle of Aéropostale, the mall-based specialty retailer of casual apparel for young people and proud owner of the most hideous name in all of clothing. Besides the mannequin's feelings, Chester worried about the store's ability to advertise. As we discussed in part one, the whole purpose of having a clothing store is to win the battle against nudity. If a mannequin isn't wearing clothes, what does that say about the war?

Chester's entreaties did nothing to slow Denise's fingers, as she slid the blouse off the poor plastic person. Chester dramatically averted his eyes as she buttoned on a new covering. Chester sighed with relief that no young children had passed and made a mental note to write a complaint about Denise's behavior to the staff at Aéropostale, the mall-based specialty retailer of casual apparel for young people and proud owner of the most hideous name in all of clothing.

Armed with her clothing items, Denise entered the fitting rooms. Outside, Chester wondered how he should react when he saw Denise exit the dressing area wearing the mannequin's clothes. If Chester praised the garb and Denise didn't like it, he risked losing judgment credibility. Similarly, if he expressed dislike of the clothing item, that reaction might be interpreted as dislike of Denise. And Chester was pretty fond of Denise...

Chester had removed a scrap of paper from his pocket and was starting to construct a game theoretic payoff matrix on which to base his reaction when Denise emerged. She was wearing the first top she had selected. Chester sat silently, staring at Denise, or, an observer might easily have concluded, past her. He said nothing. The silence grew eerie as Denise spun around twice -- what grace, Chester thought -- and asked the words he'd been dreading.

"Watcha think?"

Chester coughed and chortled on his words for a few seconds to delay responding. But something about his contrived hacking triggered a bronchial reaction and he entered a genuine fit of coughing. After a minute of red faced gasping for air, during which Chester rolled on the tile ground trying desperately to regain control of his respiration, Denise burst into tears and reentered the dressing room. When Chester recovered he heard sobbing from behind the dressing room door.

"Denise? Gee, Dee...girl, I'm sorry. I have this frog in my throat..." Chester was trying to make things right. "You look nice. I mean, the blouse is sorta ploppy, if that's a word. You know, kinda frumpy. Like something Gloppy would wear. But I like Gloppy. Gloppy can work. Always been a fan of Candy Land..."

The dressing room door flew open and Denise strode out, not sparing a glance at Chester.

"Drive me home," she said. And Chester did. Every five minutes he began an apology, but really didn't know what he was apologizing for, except making Denise feel bad -- but he wasn't sure whether he or his bronchial reaction were responsible for her tepid state of mind. And his clarifying question was met with even colder silence.

Chester concluded that this shopping trip had gone even worse than the first. Not only had they purchased nothing, but Denise hadn't even tried on her second clothing choice!

Shopping Trip (part 1)

Can I make a confession? Of course I can, half of FCN's posts begin with that facetious five word sentence. What a hoax. This blog is a non-catholic confessional and you, the faithful few, are our priests. It's a cyber line on which we hang out all our filthiest laundry. Well, here it goes: My confession is that until last week, I had never been on a real shopping trip. Sure, I'd done an occasional pit stop at a department store, sneaking through the doors afraid that my other guy friends might see me penetrate the sanctuary of retail clothing -- but in all my twenty years of living (and boy have I lived), I've never been on a bonafide shopping trip, with a female intent on spending money.

It's stories like these that make me glad we have so few readers: less embarrassment for me.

But this story isn't about me, it's about Chester, my faithful alter ego and imaginary childhood friend who stays with me despite the number of times I've stood him up, and Denise, the girl with whom he'd scheduled a date.

Chester, in case you don't recall from earlier, has trouble with decisiveness. He wants to be able to open a young woman's door for her without asking her permission first. He wants to be able to choose what octane gas he wants at the pump without changing his mind after swiping his credit card. He wants be a man's man and make moves without looking back. But his irksome mind keeps thinking of new, better ideas and he lacks the wherewithal to say "no."

The "what to do" conversation had gone something like this:

DENISE: "Chester, do you have plans for today or did you just come over to sit on my couch?"

CHESTER: "Well, not really. I mean, it's a nice couch. And I've always been a fan of the Espo Modern Tan. Is this microfiber? It's nice. Soft. Firm but pliable. Sitting on it is like dermabrasion for your behind. Very pleasant, actually. So I'm not knocking your sofa. It's just...there are a lot of things we could do today. That new Clive Owen movie just came out, In N' Out is giving away discounted double-doubles or we could just chill. Some of those options have a lot of merit...this couch is nice."

DENISE: "You wanna go shopping?"

CHESTER: "Okay."

And that is how Chester ended up in the GAP, a clothing store named for the hole it leaves in your wallet.

The GAP is a confusing store. The walls are lined with all manner of clothing, most of which looks identical, and the center areas are dominated by table-like kiosks which hold even more clothing. Most of the clothes are really nicely folded, which struck Chester as odd.

Nobody calls GAP "GAP." It is always "the GAP," the way a court jester might refer to his king as "His Majesty." This regal designation actually works to improve the store's aura and I found myself humbled to be in the royal sanctum of anti-nudity. Because that's all clothes really are: an open war on nudity. Ever since the Fall, we've tried to combat our embarrassment by covering ourselves up, as if a little textile could obscure how ugly we are. Some people, it seems, are able to wear clothes and still lose the battle. Their ugliness is on display for everyone.

Maybe Denise thought Chester was ugly. Chester didn't want to dwell too long on this ego-diminishing thought and forced his mind to move on.
Although, if she did think he was ugly, why was she going out with him? She was going out with him to a clothing store, silly Chester, to purchase coverings. Coverings that would obscure his appearance.

Chester was trying hard to look at the clothes, the shirtless GAP model on the wall (who was, no doubt, trying to hawk a shirt), anything to keep his mind off his own personal appearance, when Denise came up with an armful of clothes. Here, try these on.

"Denise, this is going to be awful expensive," Chester responded. "I was thinking I might just buy a pair of jeans..."

"Yes..."

"Well, you've picked out a third of the store. I'm not that rich..." Chester had told Denise that he was independently wealthy. Chester figured Denise believed him and he didn't want to pop that balloon.

"Yes...well, you can't very well go buy something without trying on a lot of stuff first. You need to search and experiment."

With an "Oh," Chester marched into the dressing room and after interrupting a plus-size woman in a state of undress ("sorry ma'am...that may be a little tight"), settled into the clothes-trying business.

It took forever. Each pair was exactly alike, but Denise found unique things to say about them. Chester didn't know where she found all the adjectives -- words like "casual," "formal," "ripped" and "boggy." But he appreciated the fact that he was the center of attention and so put up with the charade.

In the end, Denise didn't like any of the jeans and they left the store without any purchases. To Chester, the trip had been a dismal failure, but Denise was in bright spirits and appeared satisfied with the outing.

Check back in later for part 2, when Denise tries on clothes and Chester has to be critical.

A shopping trip

“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise,” said Franklin, Benjamin (In honor of the Olympics, names have been organized the Chinese way. This is, however, not an endorsement of the situations in Tibet or Taiwan or an approval of China's human rights record). Having performed a detailed cost/benefit analysis on the proposition, I can state with authority that health, wealth, and wisdom are not worth it. There are hours of the day when no one ought to be awake. Or, I should say, hours of the night; the day does not start until the sun is fully risen and is so high in the sky that no one can doubt its position.

Who are we to question the habits of the sun?

Alas, this very questioning - a capital offense in the Inca cultures - is what I was cruelly obliged to do one very early morning a few days ago. Sunflower Market had its grand opening. Sunflower Market! Fruits and vegetables! Fish and sushi! Healthfood! What self-respecting starving student could resist (insert snigger mark here)? So I rolled groggily out of bed, stared curiously for a minute at the power plug beneath my window, splashed water in my face (at least I think it was water), and stumbled down the stairs to the car. Yesterday's paper said there was to be a free bag of groceries for each of the first two hundred people at the doors, and I, according to my mom and grandparents, would be one of those people ("You will be one of those people, Chip!"). There was no time, a stern announcement warned, for coffee, breakfast, or even email before we took off down the road ("There is no time, Chip!"). This was a race. The morning air was dark and cool—like batman, but different—and the construction workers were barely starting work. Even the the streetlights seemed sleepy as they cast rays that were barely brighter than the sun. I yawned ("Chip, why are you yawning?"). The grand opening was not until seven. There was no way anyone else could be up this early.

Then we pulled up to the store's parking lot. Apparently, I had no idea how valuable groceries really are. The nearest empty parking space was about a mile from the store's doors. A crowd of hippies, yuppies, druggies, SDFs, urban outdoorsmen, vagrants and college professors extended from the doors to the nearest parking spot. And near the doors a troupe of cheerleaders chanted “Sunflower Market! Sunflower Market!” Mais oui, mais oui!Perhaps this trip wasn't a complete waste after all.

We parked our car and began elbowing our way through. I yawned again. Finally, we reached the entrance. “Is there a line to get in?” A yuppie gazed back at us mournfully. “No. The first two hundred people got here a long time ago.”

Obviously it was time to leave. We'd been beaten. Agincourt was over and we were the French. But the mom and grandparents begged to differ ("Chin up, Chip!"). They milled around happily with the other shoppers, drinking from little paper cups of free coffee, eating the free oranges piled outside and comparing Volvo stories.

Despite the fact that I was already outside, I needed air. I decided to go on a jog. Even exercise is better than certain situations. And it so happened that, after a quarter mile or so, I found something even better than exercise: McDonald’s. McDonald’s sells huge, greasy hunks of Southern-fried chicken in breakfast sandwiches, guaranteed to start your day the heavy, nauseated way. I used a cup of McDonald’s coffee to make the provisions palatable. There was nothing to make the coffee palatable.

There’s something about having chicken for breakfast—an uncouth, startling feeling that can only be compared to choking on a fishbone. Even if you’ve never choked on a fishbone, you can imagine what it feels like. (If you can't imagine, a demonstration can be arranged.) First, you notice that something has gone wrong in your throat. Something has jarred the comfortable, salivated muscles that you just used to savor a bite of food. Then, you realize that something has gone wrong in your stomach. It is in communication with the throat exactly the way married couples aren't, and evidently feels some empathy (same analogy). Finally, you jump in alarm as your stomach and throat combine forces to begin a revolt.

Like most revolutions, this one is motivated more by impulse than reason. If you’ve piled your plate high with fried strips of pork fat or bitten into the mound of melting, oozing sausage, eggs, and cheese that is called the McMuffin, you have done something very disgusting for the morning hour. It is only conventionally disgusting, however. It takes extra nerve and extra tastelessness to eat something that disturbingly disgusting. Or it takes a free coupon, which is what I had. Free chicken sandwiches are of course superior to free groceries.

After quelling the revolt, I returned to the store. Much to my chagrin, the cheerleaders were gone, but so were the crowds of people, and my family was ready to leave with several bags of fresh (though not free) produce. A shopping trip is a shopping trip, after all.