In 1979, I was three years old. Carter was President, the winters were snowier and New York City was a magical land just over the GW Bridge. But it wasn’t Disneyland.
By Thanksgiving eve of 1980, I was off to my second annual viewing of Macy’s finest helium heroines as they rose to their glory over the course of the evening. Somewhat accidentally, my dad says, is how we ended up watching the floats inflate along the sidelines of the Museum of Natural History. Although seeing the infamous whale inside maintained a certain cache, nothing, including Chinese New Year or Annie (the first time around), could compare to our annual Thanksgiving eve trek to the Upper West Side.
My mother basted her turkey while friends and family helped prepare for the following day’s feast; but my daddy and I were off to watch those grand, looming and colorful characters puff and inflate. I remember those first years quite well. The parade itself was an afterthought; I would wake up to the television, seeking out all the floats I could remember from the night before.
We were two characters ourselves, a Jewish Frick and Frack, Kavalier and Clay, Ross and daughter, shouting for Kermit like the Yanks were barely down in the 9th. The roads weren’t cordoned off then; a few police lingered. We ate pretzels. And meat on a stick. We were travelers who encountered all eventualities: some years hail, others blustering winds. We bought glow in the dark bracelets and I sat on my dad’s shoulders. Kermit’s limbs would sag and then extend, helium, and the small chanting crowd, encouraging him to eek out one more year. Go Kermey. Go Kermey. He was an old float.
Eventually though, Kermit retired. But not us. This past Wednesday, my dad and I celebrated our 27th visit to the floats, missing only one year to the flu (mine, not Kermit’s). Sure, we’ve changed as well. In college, I would invariably cut my Wednesday classes if they weren’t already cancelled, racing down from New Hampshire, cheering on my aging Volvo as I would Kermit. Come on, one more year. You can make it.
The balance shifted. Fewer floats and pretzels, more fancy dinners. First, Union Square. Then Shun Lee. Since then, Le Bernadin, Gramercy Tavern, Montrachet. Yet the main attraction remained the same. It was our tradition.
In 2002, I moved to New York for graduate school. Now I was the savvy city girl, and my dad came to retrieve me in the West Village for our annual date. And in 2005, perhaps our most special dinner yet, I watched as my dad carefully questioned the waiter regarding how they cooked the Dover Sole. It had been only five weeks since a minor heart attack forced him to make major changes. Sure, the cream sauce was good. But being here is better.
2007. I live in Brooklyn now and am planning a wedding. No matter. Flower arrangements and bridal parties can wait. This is our special night. Oops, it just got sappy. So before this turns into Miracle on 34th Street meets Father of the Bride, I’ll switch gears. It turns out it’s not actually our night anymore.
It’s the whole town’s night!
Nice Matin must have been the gastronomic segue to watching the floats. The restaurant is jammed with pre-turkey cheer; wine is flowing and reservations are barely honored. We finish dinner and walk west, along with the madding crowd. Despite seeing the streets busier over the years, somehow 2008 feels like the tipping point. Masses of strollers pound across Columbus Avenue, thousands of policeman monitor the docile, if not affected, crowd. Cheer is in the air but, in the spirit of New York, so is the hum of being in the cool place.
Religion isn’t the opiate of the people. Hulking, cartoon gods are. Shrek. Mutant turtles. Sure, I could be called a Thanksgiving Grinch. Certainly every child should be able to look back on urban youth with larger than life memories of their favorite characters blown up in 3-D. But must everything become a circus? I remember when the crowds were simply a sideshow. Crews of workmen and women on the job through the night. The rest of us just had our nose against the fence.
As New York Magazine wrote, “What was once simply a preparatory stage to the big show has evolved into an event itself with the crowds to prove it.”
Don’t get me wrong, I followed the madding crowd this year. And I’m just as competitive as the next girl on the F train. So please note for the record, that I was there first. Not in 1927 when it began, but close enough. Standing on the shoulders of a giant, when New York wasn’t Disneyland.
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Filed Under: on the street
Whatever happened to a good bargain?So many aphorisms come to mind- the more things change, the more they stay the same. The older I get the smarter my mother becomes. The times they are a changin’. Well, in my childhood days in New Jersey my mother and I would frequent Loehmann’s. It seemed like a smart choice back then; since I now visit the original 7th avenue store and she no longer travels to the Rt 4 outpost in Jersey, I can’t help but wonder: is she indeed getting smarter?
What I do know is that things are surely not staying the same. The onslaught of multiple Century 21’s, express buses to Woodbury Commons, brand labels created exclusively for the outlet stores, lead me to believe that there is simply not enough bargain to go around. I’m no economist, but simple supply and demand tells me that there is a limited supply of overstock, slightly damaged merch and last season’s styles to fill all these “discount” shelves.
Furthermore, with my mother’s New Jersey twang ringing in my head, (which, when I imitate her, sounds strikingly like my Mike Bloomberg rendition as well as my mother-in-law to be’s Boca-isms), I ask “this is such a bah-gain?!?!” when grabbing some Marc Jacobs schmata, still priced in the triple digits. Last time I checked, ruffles, mismatched buttons and small tears were passe, no?
A few examples:
I enter the Space outlet at Woodbury- how is an orange Prada bag at $600.00 any more of a bargain than one in black at $900.00?
Tory Burch flats at the eponymously named “discount” shop- only about 10% cheaper than at Bloomies or Saks? The gasoline to the outlets is worth more than this bargain.
At Bloomingdales, I notice a Theory blazer on sale. With the store’s marked down price, and my coupon, it’s cheaper than any outlet. And they have every size imaginable. Come to think of it, it’s quite comforting to find everything I’m looking for– the right color, multiple sizes, no damaged goods. Is the world changing? Or am I just growing up? Maybe my mother is right– sometimes, you just want what you want.
Perhaps it’s me. I once considered myself a panopticon in the discount hunters’ universe. Am I crashing the wrong party? Do I need to visit the garment district? Chinatown? Foreign Markets? Is discount the new rip-off? Is my mother Einstein?
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Filed Under: in the store
Jul
25
Kleinfeld’s Sample Sale
I didn’t go for the story, I went for the dress. I really mean it. But in a city of cosmic shopping uncertainties, I left the Kleinfeld’s sample sale with everything I hadn’t come looking for and without that one elusive thing every girl dreams of: the perfect gown.
Although I think it’s a silly word, perfect, and a silly concept, perfection, the betrothed say that it truly exists: a wedding dress that makes you forget about cellulite, stretch marks, your rent check and all the bitter ways marriage can end. That there is a moment when you look in the mirror and say “I do.” As in, I DO look drop dead stunning in this gown. I will shout Hava Nagila from the top of my lungs and I will turn heads. So me of little faith decided that she would mosey on over to the Kleinfeld’s annual sample sale; it started at 5 pm, it’s a breezy summer Tuesday in the city, and I am on vacation. As I walked south on 6th avenue, I paused at 20th st. Left or right? Just east of 6th or just west? I suppose the blinding bling should have directed me; as I turned west, at around 3 pm, there stood, and sat, about 60 women, brides and brides’ little helpers: mothers, friends, sisters.
There was a silent aggression in the air- first, you do the requisite subtle stare: engagement ring. Then, assess her style. Assess her size. Will she be competition? Can I take her? As I retrieve my number, 39 (not so bad), I walk to the back of the line, watching and being watched. There’s a quiet aggression, like drunk people at a country club. As I take my place behind the last girl, the sun ducks behind a building and my cell phone vibrates. It’s a text message from my fiance: “good luck, baby. And if anyone fights you for a dress, go for their knees.” No matter how many jokes people make about the infamous Friends gown shopping episode, I know there’s some truth in this message: use all my private school savvy, and fight like hell. But two hours later, I was leaving, carrying out only a pair of sandals that I bought earlier uptown.
There were cameramen flocking the line, interviewing girl #1, after all, being the first person in line at the Kleinfeld’s sample sale must make you some kind of New York wonder. They also swarmed around friendly faces, absurd conversations, generous talkers. As a writer and consummate New Yorker, I am embarrassed to confess that I didn’t realize the enormity of such an event; the press was out. So it was sotto voce that I discussed bikini waxes, with my neighbor on line. On a rare afternoon when nobody in my life could accompany me on such a journey, I found myself awash in conversation with my bridal buddies. In fact, I spent about a hour and a half talking incessantly with the loveliest young woman, a makeup artist-soon-to-be-teacher named Lisa Rothenberg (she does weddings!) and her warm, generous mother who provided chocolate covered almonds for all the parched, exhausted brides in her sight. All we needed was a lemonade stand. This was the highlight of the day and the almonds were moist and decadent. People who camp out together for such events will always share a special bond, like those together at summer camp, a blackout, the LSATs.
Upon entering, I was herded to the back, asked to turn in my number, and then the debriefing began; the woman’s tight bun and long face wiggled as she directed me: three dresses at a time, take them off the rack yourself, place them over there, she points to a man, one of the only in the place, and he will help you get a room. I roamed around for about 10 minutes, taking this much more lightly then one should, I suppose. Others zoomed and zipped while I slowly stuck my hands in the plastic covering the gowns; milky whites, washed out lemons, dirtied puffs of clouds, drifted into my fingers. The racks with dresses under $800.00 must have all been snatched up by numbers 1-38. And, in my humble opinion, anything over $800.00 should really be decided upon with your mother. I’m all about a great deal. And I never need perfection. But no returns, no more than three dresses at a time, no alterations and no personal dressing room? It simply wasn’t worth it to me today.
In short, water at the bodega: $2. Tasti-Delite on the walk there: $3. Finding a fabulous make-up artist for my wedding, while standing on line: $300. Not having a list of rules while trying on wedding gowns: priceless.
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Filed Under: in the store
Jul
19
Po Brooklyn
My fiancé was born and raised in Brooklyn. But he is the first one to proclaim how our (formerly his) Cobble Hill apartment is so vastly different from the outer Brooklyn of his youth, which resembled less desirable suburban towns rather than funky urban enclaves. Still, his Brooklyn pride runs deep. And, as they say, you can take the boy out of Brooklyn, but…you know the rest of the story. So, when I glow with glee over Manhattan transfers, claiming how so many of Brooklyn’s finest institutions first began just west of us, I am met with accusations of not recognizing the outer borough’s sheer wonder in its own right. And he has some good points, but I like to think that Brooklyn Fish Camp, Joe’s Pizza, Cube 63 and Frankie’s give me a few points as well.
Well, we could volley with the ‘whose borough is better game’ all day, ad infinitum, or we could spend a little time talking about one such migration that I would visit even if it settled a third time in Staten Island (well, that was slightly hyperbolic but still…). I’m choosing the latter.
We ate at Po last week, and I can’t seem to get the computer to put the little accent over the ‘o’, so please excuse this glaring omission. As many of you probably know, Po began on Cornelia Street in the West Village (which happens to be the shortest street in Manhattan), dishing out delicious, moderately priced Northern Italian cuisine. Now, in the tradition of borough hopping, Po Brooklyn has so graciously arrived on our doorstep, festooning the already well-decorated Smith Street. Yum.
Really, yum. Do: go early or call for a table. Try to sit in the window. Though we were virtually on top of our neighbors, it made for a lovely evening of chatting and dining, much in the spirit of our friendly, family oriented neighborhood (the couple next to us was our parents’ age; they told us that, after visiting with their daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren, they go out on the town before heading back to New Jersey- one for the Brooklyn team, my fiancé shouts from the stands!).
The portabella salad was lovely-a beautifully marinated mushroom with deliciously fresh greens. The goat cheese starter was less memorable but that’s ok because the cod and tagliarini were a fight to the death-meaning that we fought over every last bite on the plate. True, it’s hard to do anything bad with truffles, and who would want to, but it wasn’t just the pasta with white truffle oil that danced in our mouths. The cod was flaky and…yum. I’m out of descriptors. Go there and it will be yums all around.
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Filed Under: at the table
Sure, Neda is one of Cobble Hill’s most well dressed boutiques. The small store is filled with racks of beautiful clothes- fine lines, nice fabrics, great colors. It’s quite sophisticated actually and surpasses most of its not-so-shabby neighbors. And they have a remarkable shoe selection for a small store as well as fun bags that range in price from the absolutely cheap to the still affordable. But I can’t bring myself to buying a thing there. Perhaps it’s because, the older I get, and the more I write about shopping, the more attuned I am to the personality behind the shop. Or perhaps it’s because they’re located a skip away from my yoga studio and, on my walk home after class, I expect the world to greet me with the same om like generosity that has recently restored my spirit. Or maybe it’s simpler than that: they’re just rude.
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Filed Under: in the store
There are only a few things I love to do more than shop. Some of those things include eating and yoga (usually not at the same time). The rest I’ll leave to your imagination.
It’s been a joy to receive such positive feedback about the little pink list. And for those who know me well, I’m so inspired by your encouragement and enthusiasm as well as your noodging about expanding this site.
So last week I decided that shopping alone would not suffice. I indeed had some things to say about eating in New York as well as living a New York life both on and off the yoga mat.
At first, I envisioned “little pink menu” and “little pink yoga”. And then I realized how silly it all sounded. So I added two new categories, and rolled shopping into one. They’re still living under the big umbrella of little pink list-
same list, still pink, just not as little.
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Filed Under: at the table, in the store, off the mat
Jun
1
Anthropologie sale
I’ve discussed in the past my concerns regarding the anthropologie sale rack. I neglected to mention the variety of sales however. The traditional racks in the basement are filled with leftovers and schmutz for the most part. But when the racks switch positions, you know you’re in business. A couple times a year, they have a real sale– as in stuff you actually want to own. They open up the racks so that they are perpendicular to the staircase as you descend the stairs at the 16th st store (and a similar set-up in the other shops as well) and you know you’re in business. This means a variety of sizes and colors that are actually in style. Go there now– it’s happening. And I scored big time. I hope you do as well. And in case there’s nothing for you on sale, I’ve accepted that it’s the best spot for cute summer dresses- even at annoyingly inflated prices.
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Filed Under: in the store
May
15
C21 Alert
Run, don’t walk…to Century 21 this week. And please allow a brief anecdote to help capture the moment.
A few years back, when I was an impoverished graduate student, every dollar counted. So, while shopping at Bloomingdale’s (I know, I know, why is a poor grad student at Bloomies? But come on now, one still needs to look good after all, even when one is subsisting on canned tuna, doesn’t one?) for a strapless bra (I was desperate as I had a wedding to attend just days later) it became a toss-up between a Wacaol and a Chantelle. As a Chantelle girl, I opted for the latter but given my budget constraints I decided to be practical and save myself about $15-$20 and go with the Wacaol.
But let me tell you, that Chantelle bra looked slammin’ in the dressing room and I tortured myself over the decision. You know the shopping demons that perch themselves on your shoulder: “What’s a few extra dollars?! come on!” “Well, a few extra dollars is a night of sushi take-out, it means Citeralla not Gristede’s”, “Yes, but who wants to go to Gristede’s or Citeralla in a less than sexy bra?” And the argument goes on; if you’re anything like I am, it can go on for a long, long time.
Needless to say, I bought the Wacaol bra, made peace with the choice and moved on. Well, almost moved on. A year or so later, finished with school and shedding some of my shopping guilt, I cruised up to Bloomie’s to pick up that great Chantelle bra that I never did truly forget about. After all, how many great strapless bras does one girl find in lifetime?
So there I am, frantically searching the Chantelle nook, rummaging through racks, peeking behind hanger after useless plastic hanger but to no avail. In total denial, I assume they must have sold out. Finally, a woman asks if she can help me find something (we all know the service there is hit or miss). I describe the bra, right down to the rubberized interior at the top of the cup and the scalloped detailing along the edges.
“Oh, they discontinued that.” Why do people have to say things so nonchalantly these days? And before I’ve even had the chance to internalize this news, she proceeds to ask if I’d like to check out some of the other strapless bras. Of course I don’t want to try on other strapless bras! If I wanted another strapless bra, I would go home and dig out the black Wacaol and throw myself a party! So I left Bloomie’s that afternoon without a bra but with the curious question of why companies do away with great merchandise.
Fast forward to this afternoon. Still shopping too much. Still teaching and driving my students crazy. And to be honest, I’d all but forgotten about this bra. And then, after work today, I just happen to be in the Century 21 neighborhood, and took a sunny stroll through lingerie. I think we all know where this story is going so I won’t even cheapen it with words. Needless to say, I bought more than one, the price was right and I’m wearing it as I type this.
Even if your own story is less dramatic than this one, still visit C21 lingerie. They have tons of On Gossamer undies that are just like Hanky Panky but come in sizes. I love the navy blue. And speaking of Hanky Panky, some of last year’s colors of our favorite one size fits all thong are showing up there as well. Go early and go often; merchandise moves fast.
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Filed Under: in the store
Apr
27
Spankin panty?
I’m not a thong girl. The invention of the “boy short” was really a blessed excuse to continue wearing a grandma pant. As a teacher by day and yogi by night, I believed that thongs had little business in my life. But the increasingly lower cut denim coupled with VPL fears, has forced me to make a few investments. Plus, even a plain ol’ gal like myself can feel a little sexier in scantily clad undies.
Recently, two girlfriends, on two separate occasions, mentioned the hanky panky. one size fits all? Is that even possible? $18.00 per pair? Is that even reconcilable on a teacher’s salary? These, of course, are rhetorical questions, because there i was, front and center, in bloomingdale’s lingerie department, lining up to make the purchase.
I must confess that I like them. I do. They’re comfy, they show no lines and i do feel nice in them. still, they are a bit pricey. For a cheaper, and equally good version, hit GapBody. They don’t wash quite as well, but in all other ways are a wonderful substitute. Make sure to get the ultra low rise lace thong, not the cotton and lace ultra low rise thong- which are kind of thick in the crotch area and not half as much fun.
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Filed Under: in the store
Apr
14
J. Crew
Ah, there’s so many things I need to say about J. Crew—that they were a staple of my high school years, that it’s rumored their cashmere is milled by Loro Piana, that when they began opening retail stores I was only 16…and bought a green, cotton roll neck sweater on a school trip in Washington D.C. We had some free time in Georgetown; my friend gave money to a homeless person and I gave mine to J. Crew.
Perhaps this mention of a retail store is a nice segue into my recent concerns of my high school shopping sweetheart. J. Crew is a store few of us grow out of; their casual wear is suitable for any summer road trip, their suiting is classic and affordable and except for their recent foray into wedding attire, J. Crew’s design choices usually seem smart and practical. Why, then, must the bottom line always have to ruin everything?
As many of us know, their website is the place to find bargains. At any time in the season, there’s bound to be pages of clothing rife with hearty discounts. But the fine print is there as well: All sales final. No exchanges. No returns. Now, I’m no financial analyst, but I think I get it. Goal: unload merchandise. But when the big sales happen, I notice the sizes aren’t running out quite as quickly as they did before this new returns policy went into effect. While I’m sure they have plenty of people analyzing their data who believe this to be good business, my data tells me not to shop the sale rack. Unless you already own something, and want a few more for good measure (cashmere is probably the best bet here; sometimes the sweaters, including turtlenecks, get as low as $40.00), why bother? Jeans? No return? No exchange? If I wanted to burn money, I would simply avoid alternate side parking.
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Filed Under: in the store
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