Gimme Gimme, The Sequel

Yesterday afternoon I had a job interview near Union Square which now that I am unemployed and trying not to spend any money is akin to plopping a white-knuckled alcoholic in the middle of Oktoberfest and expecting him to request just a splash of iced tea in his beer stein. Of course being one very anal Virgo I arrived 40 minutes early. Which meant I could either hang out with the greasy guy selling umbrellas on the sunny street corner or I could duck into one of a million stores that just so happen to cater to those seeking retail therapy.

H&M was my first stop. I thought it was rather responsible of me considering they are so cheap and the only other time I had been there I hated it. I expected to rifle through the racks with my nose in the air and my fingers dismissively flicking at polyester. But I was wrong. True, it was a sea of poly-blends but it was cute synthetic, Marimekko inspired and fun. I circled the store a few times and then thought maybe I should call my sponsor for support. The thing is, I have no sponsor. I have Bryan, a husband who thinks he married Eva Gabor, that $128 for a pair of pants at Anthropologie is ludicrous. (And maybe it is but the pants were the perfect cropped cut, not so short as to make my ankles look big and not so long as to look like floods. Um, darling.)

I am proud to report that I did not buy anything. Honestly it was because I ran out of time, but still. I am jonesing to go shopping. In an effort to curb the shakes I have taken to browsing online and clicking crap into virtual shopping carts and then abandoning them in some internet aisle in the ethers. I feel sort of like a horny guy in prison, licking his lips and gritting his teeth as he talks about all the women he's going to fuck the shit out of when he's finally released. Sorry, but there's really no other way to say that. So here we go, the shit I'm gonna' bang when I get a job:
This Orla Kiely dress. Or any of these Orla Kiely dresses. I'm going to be the biggest Orla Kiely slut out there, rockin' those fun prints and retro fabulousness with my new fangled bi-weekly paychecks and benefits.

And this dress from J. Crew. I have always had a thing for dingleberries (not the type associated with butts, mind you). At my wedding party I wore a Mexican inspired dress with dingleberries. But this one is better. In fact, I just might have to get married again if only so I can wear this frock. I will ride into my wedding on a white horse like Bianca Jagger did at Studio 54, waving my newly acquired company id as if it were a shiny silver coke spoon.

And then there's this Norma Kamali bikini. When I was little my mom loved all things Norma Kamali and I remember sitting at the kitchen table trying to perfect the company logo: skinny 'N,' big 'O,' skinny everything else, all accented with shoulder pads seeing as how it was 1980. Because my mom loved her I thought Norma Kamali was the height of glamour and looking at this swimsuit now I don't think I was very far off. So yes, when I get a job this little red number is so mine.

Okay, this is where I get a little greedy, like that alcoholic drinking straight from the bottle or the man in the clink doing unspeakable acts. This Becky Kelso ring is my prison rape, the bottom of my barrel, the story I will tell once I get sober and speak at AA meetings. But who knows? Maybe, just maybe, I will get a job that offers me a $7k signing bonus? With the condition that I spend it on something frivolous for myself? Certainly there are companies out there like that, right?

I could have gone really overboard here with vacation houses and pool boys but I have always been the kind of girl who figures out what my imaginary lottery winnings would be after taxes. Practical. So as you can see I am using this time sans job wisely, plotting my next move, my next purchase, my next reality. Planning on binging and banging and single-handedly getting this economy straightened out. Because while I may be greedy, I am also a damn good American.