The Great American Apparel Diet, Want to Join?

I have been kicking around an idea (in a great pair of clogs) for a while now.  It goes like this….no clothing purchases for a year.  Could I do it?  Could you do it? 

I think giving up wine or chocolate might be easier for me.  You see I love to shop and I love to buy.   There is nothing quite like the feeling of a new blouse or pair of jeans wrapped in fancy tissue paper at the bottom of an expensive shopping bag.  “Ta ta,” I say, waving to the sales girl following a satisfying transaction. 

There are times when I peek into my closet and out of sheer laziness, lack of creativity or simply a need to satisfy my consumer craving; I see nothing suitable to wear.   I convince myself that the only way to solve that problem is to go out and buy something new—fast!   Invariably I end up with an item that looks surprisingly like something I already own, (for the record I have twelve black sweaters). 

I am famous for talking myself into buying something “newer and better” or “hipper and cooler,” rather than rediscovering last year’s ”newer and better” or “hipper and cooler” item at the back of my closet.   Studies say that women wear about 20% of what is in their closets.  That’s sort of embarrassing, but true for me.   

So the burning question is—what would happen to me, or you, if we didn’t buy any new clothing for a year? 

Would you have a mental breakdown?  Would you look like a schlump?   Would your confidence be shattered?  Would you become an overeater or worse yet an alcoholic, crack addict or bag lady? 

Or would you have a fatter wallet? More time? More creativity in your life?  Would you spend your time admiring patterns in nature instead of patterns in polyesters?  Would you be driven to swap the September issue of Vogue for The Utne Reader?   Would you spend the money you saved on books, events, classes, vacations, savings? 

We’ll see.  

 As of September 1st 2009 I am giving up purchasing apparel for myself for a year. 

Anyone want to join me? 

Of course I will blog about it along the way.  Giving up apparel purchases as a community, in solidarity with a group of women who are interested in saving the earth, saving themselves or simply saving their money will make it all that more interesting. 

I will plan to blog about our collective and individual cravings, missteps, temptations, excuses, innovations, ideas and triumphs.  But most importantly I’ll blog about how we as individuals feel about ourselves while on the Great American Clothing Diet. 

 And next year, on September 2, 2010   I’ll blog about what it feels like to break the restraints, let loose and buy again.   Will your spending habits have changed after a year on the wagon?  Will you be more selective, more impulsive or exactly the same as you are today?   Stay tuned, follow along, join in and you are sure to find out. 

 Here are the ground rules:

1. This contest applies to apparel you purchase for yourself only (you can still buy clothing for your family).  Apparel includes any type of clothing, including coats, athletic apparel, pajamas etc.  It does not include underwear or bras. 
2. The contest does not include shoes or accessories (you can go nuts with scarves,clogs,  handbags, sunglasses and watches).
3. You can beg and borrow apparel from your friends.  You cannot buy (that is transact money) for anything that falls into the category of apparel. 
4. You can trade, consign, swap or re-make something but no purchases. 
5. You can receive unsuspecting, unsolicited gifts of apparel.

Write soon and let me know that you’re in.   Also, pass this along if you think one of your friends or relatives would like to join in too.

Weather Whiners

This summer the Pacific Northwest has been gorgeous.  Last week we hit record highs in Seattle at 103 degrees.  My seven year old son found the idea of record breaking weather fascinating and told anyone who would listen, “It is the hottest day in the whole wide world in Seattle.”   Following three days of his never ending proclamation I gave him a geography lesson.

 I heard a lot of moaning and complaining about the heat last week. I cringed when someone said, “Geez, this heat is killing me.”  I resisted the impulse to put my sweaty hand over mouths before grumbling words slipped out.  Or, responding with a firm “man up!”  (To steal a phrase from my 14 year old).

All this kvetching about the heat makes me superstitious.  Every winter we Seattleites drone on and on about the miserable, dark, cold, damp, well of winter we find ourselves in six and sometimes eight months out of the year–this whining about the heat can only jinx us.  Once and for all, in the history of the whole wide world in Seattle, we are given the weather we travel to Mexico for in February and we’re whining?  That’s got-a come back to bite us.

If there is a God she is looking down at Seattle and shaking her head.  “People, people, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I give you Southern California beach babe weather and you’re not happy?  Arghhhh! Well, if it’s any comfort I have buckets of damp, dark, wet, rain right around the corner.”

By the way, on avearge we have 226 cloudy days a year in Seattle. 

The Name Tag Project

I attended the BlogHer conference in Chicago last week.  For those of you who have never heard of BlogHer, it’s the largest women’s blogging organization in the whole wide world.  It was tons of fun and very informative.  I met all kinds of bloggers; crafters, juicers, political junkies, stepmothers, the list goes on and on.   I am left wondering if there is a BlogHim conference somewhere—probably Vegas.

My friend Lian and I, that would be Lian Dolan from Satellite Sisters and Chaos Chronicles, palled around the Sheraton trying to come up with a new, “high concept” idea for a new blog/book and movie deal.  You know like Alex, the Seattle performance artist who wore the same brown dress for a year and then built a following by blogging about it. And Julie Powell, the woman who attempted to cook all the recipes in Julia Child‘s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, that’s 524 recipes in 365 days.  After chronicling her day to day cooking escapades on her blog Powell landed a book deal and a movie deal starring Meryl Streep.  

 My idea, the one that I just couldn’t shake, which got a lot of laughs from Lian, was the “name tag project.” 

“What would happen,” I asked Lian, who is a self professed name tag lover, “if I wore a name tag for a year—never took it off?  365 days, 24 hours a day.”  She laughed as I continued to describe my high concept.  “I suppose if the name tag got soiled you could replace it with a new one.  Regardless, the idea is I would wear it everywhere, you know swimming, running, Pilates, taking my son to school, my husband’s Christmas party, grocery shopping.”   We both laughed out loud while I continued to imagine the reactions the “name tag project” would evoke from my immediate public. 

“Maybe I would change my name everyday; you know work up some real doozies.  Like Wanda May Jones, Pepper LaBeija, or Gas Ambrosia (this is a real name according to my friend who is a teacher in a colorful neighborhood). 

 When I got home I pitched the concept to my husband and kids.  They snickered and told me I was crazy.  My husband, while trying to feign support, said he’d tire of the experiment quickly, especially in bed.  My seven year old son told me he’d be really embarrassed especially when we had sleepovers at our house. 

   “You people don’t have vision,” I complained loudly.   “I’ll have the last laugh when the Avery label people offer me a lucrative sponsorship.  And after that I am sure I’ll land a book deal maybe even a movie.” 

 “Who will act out your part?”  My husband asked? 

 “I don’t know, it’s a toss up, maybe Katie Holmes or Meryl Streep.  Who ever shows the most enthusiasm for the project.”

Where are your manners?

I have recently received some strange social invitations that have had me longing for the practical and old fashioned wisdom of Emily Post. 

I was standing there at the market knocking on watermelons to check for ripeness when a woman I am friendly with approached me.  “Hey, what are you guys doing tonight?  We have tickets to Cowboy Junkies and Sun Volt at the Zoo Tunes.  Do you want to go?” 

 What an invitation I thought.  I had been meaning to buy tickets for that very same show earlier in the season but didn’t get around to it until they were completely sold out—they went fast. 

 “Sure we’d love to go.”  I responded, thinking she was offering tickets for my husband and I or at the very least offering to sell us her spare tickets. 

 “Well, she said, you’ll have to scalp some tickets but I am sure you can get some at the entrance.” 

 Hmmm.  I felt like I had just been let in on a bad joke.  I don’t want to scalp tickets for anything.  I am a 40—something year-old woman and the idea of getting a babysitter lined up “just in case” I can covertly scam a few tickets to a concert doesn’t sound like fun to me.  I politely declined, “no, on second thought we’re busy tonight.” 

 I think she could have said something like this instead.  “Hey, we’re going to the zoo concert tonight.  I know it’s kind of a risk, but if you and Mark (my husband) want to try and go I think you might be able to scalp tickets.  We’d love to see you there.” 

 About a week later another friend asked my husband and I, “Hey do you guys like theater? We have two tickets to the 5th Ave. theater tomorrow.”   My husband and I both responded at the same time, “Yes,” I said.  “No,” he said.   “I’ll take them I said, I would love to see the play.  I’ll invite one of my friends if he doesn’t want to go.”  Now in my mind I was doing them a favor, taking the two tickets that might not otherwise be used, off their hands. 

 “O.K.,” she said awkwardly, “well we were hoping that we could do dinner first.”   It was then that I realized that they wanted us to attend the play “with” them.  I suddenly realized that they didn’t want just one of us they wanted the two of us or the plan was a no go.  It was uncomfortable and weird but I squirmed my way out of the invitation and I am hopeful that they found another heterosexual couple to share the tickets with. 

 Now why didn’t this woman say, “My husband and I are going to the theater and we have two extra tickets.  Would two like to attend and join us for dinner beforehand?”

 It was the third invite that really stumped me.  A good friend of mine called to say she had an extra ticket to a concert  because her husband was traveling and couldn’t make the show.  She asked if I would like to attend with her.  I jumped at the chance.  Following the concert she asked that if I could pay her for the ticket.  Huh?  I was shocked and surprised.  I thought I was going as her guest.  Weird!

 What has happened to good old fashioned communication, to etiquette, to manners?  I think what we need is a little Emily to the rescue!

Recessions Make Strange Bedfellows

I was staring down at the clumps of cat hair and runaway legos that my old Hoover kept spitting up when it occurred to me that what I really needed in order to clean my own house was a fancy schmancy vacuum—I had my eyes on the Dyson 25 model retailing for 500 smackers, exactly the same amount we spent per month on our cleaning lady before we decided to “scale back” and clean the house ourselves.

The original idea for the “do it yourself” model was to save money, a wise strategy since I’m not making much dough these days in my “real” job, (very lucrative in days gone by).  So, given our new, self-imposed, “fallen-on-hard-times” household spending strategy, forking out half a grand on a vacuum seemed downright schizophrenic.  What was I thinking?

Later that night I mentioned my vacuum lust to my husband Mark.  Known to foam at the mouth at the mere mention of technology, his eyes lit up.  “You know, a capital investment in the latest vacuum innovation would save us time, money and back pain.” But, even with his convincing logic and my desire for the fashionable and efficient yellow and black Dyson, I couldn’t justify the cost (one of us needed to be strong). 

Thus I began my Dyson25 search online (which will be referred to here as D25).  The search ended up being a lot easier than I had anticipated.  Within minutes of plugging the word “Dyson” into Craig’s List I found two new D25s priced at $330 and $370. 

The first person I contacted was advertising a “lightly used,” D25 for $330.  I called the number listed and left an enthusiastic message with a heavily accented voice mail.  They must have sold it because I never heard back.

The other posting advertised a brand new D25, in box, (that’s “NIB” for those of you who don’t speak fluent E-Bay) for $370 cash.  The NIB D25 was owned by a guy named Guy.  I asked him via text, “why are you getting rid of it?” He responded via voice mail, in a cloudy dope smoker tone, “I got in a three-wheel accident and I won’t be vacuuming for a while.”  My mind went immediately to Tom Cruise in Born on the 4th of July, replete with wheelchair, catheter and do-rag.   The least I could do for the guy was to take the D25 off his hands.  

I offered him via text $330 for the vacuum.  He responded that his floor was $370 and he had another buyer.  I wished him luck and went back to my old Hoover.    

 Five days later, on our way to church, I got a text from Guy. 

 “Other deal fell through; I will sell you Dyson for $340 cash today.”

“I’ll take it.”  I texted back.

“Meet tonight, Shell station in Sumner, 7pm.

For those of you who are not from Seattle, Sumner is so far south it may as well be Portland Oregon.  With gas and road snacks I’d probably be better off buying my D25 at Best Buy and saving myself the hassle.     

 “Sumner is too far to go for a $340 D25.”   I texted back.

“Can you do Jet Chevrolet, South Federal Way instead, 7:00pm?”  (Still a 30 mile schlep but given the fact that the guy was disabled I acquiesced.)

“Yes.  See you then.”

 When we returned from church I called Paige our effervescent, overachieving, APP high school babysitter to see if she could watch our six year old prodigy while we made the trek to South Federal Way that evening.  She enthusiastically took me up on opportunity.   

 At 6:15pm my husband and I, headed south on I-5 in our Toyota Prius to rescue our D25 and to save some money.  After 45 minutes in weekend traffic we finally came upon Jet Chevrolet, a beacon in the vast arterial littered with fast food joints and big box retailers. Excited to get the deal over with, we pulled up to the front of the deserted dealership in our foreign, gas saving car to conspicuously wait for our dealer to hand off the goods.   

Sseconds after of turning off the ignition we were descended upon by seven hungry man-wolves looking to sell some cars from their newly bankrupt supplier.  “We’re just waiting for a friend,” Mark said sheepishly when one of the guys tapped on the window. 

 At 7:10, I texted Guy asking him where he was.  “Be there in 5,” he texted back.  “Look for red Toyota Forerunner.”  A few minutes later Mark saw in the rearview mirror a red SUV pulling into the back of the car lot, “that’s him.”   We followed him as he sped down the gravel road behind the dealership. At my insistence Mark honked the horn to let him know we were there. “He doesn’t know it’s us,” I said to Mark.  “No, he knows we’re here,” he snapped nervously. Finally, after what felt like a Law and Order chase scene Guy stopped his car abruptly, blinding us with gravel and dust. 

Within seconds a wiry fortyish man who looked like he had smoked too many cigarettes in his time, jumped out of the car, all four limbs surprisingly intact.   He had longish, salt and pepper hair that stopped at his shoulder and a tooth or two missing. He was dressed in jeans, and a sweatshirt with a hood.  “You Sally?” he asked.  “That’s me!” I said, a little too enthusiastically, clapping my hands and smiling. I could see through the tinted window that he had a long haired female passenger in the car and lots of electronics in boxes shoved against the back window.   

“I have your Dyson.”  He said, pulling a long rectangular box out of the back of his car.

“Can I take a look inside?” asked Mark. 

“You open it and it’s yours.” He cautioned. 

“Well, we need to make sure it does in fact have a vacuum inside,” explained Mark defensively. 

“What do you think I’d do, lie to ya?” 

 Mark reflexively opened the box relieved to find a brand new Dyson with the tags still on it.  On the outside of the box was a UPC code from a major retail chain. 

“It looks like it’s in good shape,” said Mark. 

“Brand new, just like I said,” growled Guy. 

“Well that’s one hot Dyson,” I said.  With that I handed him the $340 cash. 

Turning away I asked, “Why are you selling it again?”

“I got a new vacuum, a Sebo X4.”   

“Ah ha, I see.” 

 Mark and I put our brand new Dyson, including warranty, in the back of our car and followed Guy out of the lot.  At the stop light we pulled up behind him. “Should I write down his license plate?” I asked Mark.   “It wouldn’t hurt.”  As soon as I found a pen Guy floored the engine and sped away, burning some rubber for effect.  I couldn’t help but feel that he was trying to get away from us.  I would be lying if I told you we weren’t a little anxious to get away from him too. 

 When we got home we tried out our new vacuum, put our prodigy to bed and had a light dinner. 

 A few days later I retold the story to a friend of mine.  I said, “It was so dark, I felt like we were in a drug deal.”  And he said, “Sally, I think you were.” 

 Recessions make strange bedfellows.

Phone Love

I recently broke up with Blackberry.  We were together for five long, mostly beautiful years.  It’s not that he wasn’t good to me; in fact he was generous, reliable and trustworthy.  You know—Canadian.  In the end, however, I came to the conclusion that BB, (that was my nickname for him), was too serious and kind of boring.  I thought I could do better.  I guess I just didn’t appreciate what I had.  And truth be told the last year we were together I wasn’t entirely faithful.   Don’t get me wrong, I kept my clothes on, but my eyes and heart were wandering.  I watched as other women cavorted around town, hand and hand with i-phone the new wunderkid from Silicon Valley.  Sexy, youthful women laughing, taking pictures and texting.  My old, staid, BB stood by proudly as I stared longingly at the happy healthy people holding hands.  I can’t imagine he didn’t see the breakup coming.

So now, I’m dating again.  O.K. well dating is probably a little misleading.   I am in a “new relationship” with i-phone—we live together.   I fell hard and just like that (snapping fingers) I kicked BB out of my life and I let i-phone move in with all his apps.  I didn’t even look at his references or demand a demo.   I was told by a reliable source that our relationship would be a snap, a plug and play kinda deal, I should have known better. 

As you can imagine our relationship started out a little rocky, after all we hardly knew each other.   I am on a PC and he never lets me forget it.  I suppose I should have looked into that little fact before I decided to let him move in. 

But he’s sexy.  You know in that “I’m a savant from Stanford” sort of way.  That snarky “I’m smarter and more attractive, so you better keep up,” kind of way?   It can get a little intimidating.  But, like most creative types he’s sensitive to the touch, a nartist really, (that’s part artist, part narcissist).  It’s all about him—every time I go to make a call or send an e-mail he presents me with all kinds of complicated options, “hey try this,”  “what about this?”  All I want to do is make a simple call or send a text but when I touch his shiny screen he quivers and suddenly we’re somewhere else.  He doesn’t know it but I’ve had to call the experts on more than one occasion. 

Between you and me, all the funky new moves he wants me to learn make me a little nervous. I’m not entirely sure I’m up to the challenge.  You know teaching and old dog new tricks. He keeps telling me I need to work on my touch and my voice control.  Just yesterday he said that he’d like to employ the mega pixel camera into our love life.  Next he’s going to be trying to convince me that we need the compass in our bedroom.   BB wasn’t demanding at all, he just liked me to hold on tight and keep him warm.  i-phone?  He’s a live wire.  But I guess I asked for it. 

 My friends tell me not to worry.  They assure me that one day it will hit me smack dab in the face and I will be in love.  I too am hopeful that our relationship will blossom into something very deep and meaningful; otherwise I may be crawling back on my knees and begging BB to take me back.

Me, a size 2? Who Knew?

O.K. what’s this vanity sizing thing all about—I am sure some marketing director out there is claiming it does something for a girl’s ego, “Women feel thinner when they wear a size smaller.”  All it does for me is make me feel manipulated.  I recently bought a pair of size six cropped pants at Banana Republic.  First of all I am not a size six nor have I ever been, who do they think they’re kidding?   Anyway, I bought the size six because they were the ones that fit. Later, following an ice cream cone and a coffee, (because that’s what people who are a size 6 can do), I went home and put my new pants on.  Two hours later my size 6 pants had transformed into a BR size 12.  The waist and derriere stretched so much I looked like a rapper with the waistband at my crotch. 

The next day I tossed the incredible growing crop pants into our high tech, save the earth, washing machine, put the setting on extra hot and prayed for a shrinking miracle.  Sure enough when I got them out of the dryer they were back to their natural state–a BR size 6 (aka, real world size 8 or 10).  Relieved, I put them on.  Two hours later, however, I was dropping trow—again.   

Though I was frustrated that I had spent over $70 on pants that only fit well for about an hour, I continued to wear them a few more times.  I told myself that no one would notice that my pants were falling down. Finally, the last time I wore the pants my husband, who hardly notices anything about my wardrobe unless I am wearing a low cut something or other, said, “Those pants are awful, they’re practically falling down.”  At that point I vowed never to wear them again. 

A week later, annoyed about my new cropped pants that were supposed to take me through the summer in style, I decided that the most responsible thing to do was to return them, kindly report the product defect and get my money back.  When I went into the store to discuss the matter the cute little sales guy behind the counter informed me that “Banana doesn’t take returns once a product had been washed,” and… “Our pants stretch.  In the future you should buy your pants a few sizes smaller.”  Does that mean I am really a 5’5, 140 pound size 2?  I asked?   “Maybe, you never know,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

Slow Clothing for Real!

 A few motnhs ago I blogged about slow clothing.  It was sort of a joke until I started getting e-mails from authentic slow clothiers or slow wearers, however you want to categorize them.  Anyway, this is a serious movement.  It’s all about only wearing what you need.  How many of you can fathom that idea with your closets full of nearly unworn clothes and shoes.  I have to admit I even have a few items that still have the tags.  Anyway, it’s a good idea but hard to wrap my fashion conscious mind around.  Today I stumbled upon a new website /blog, the brain child of Sheena Matheiken. It’s called, the uniform project.   It’s one woman’s quest to wear the same dress for a year, mixing it up only with layers and accessories.  I  am going to follow her daily and watch how she does it.  Facinating! 

The Uniform Project is also a year-long fundraiser for the Akanksha Foundation, a grassroots movement that is revolutionizing education in India. At the end of the year, all contributions will go toward Akanksha’s School Project to fund uniforms and other educational expenses for slum children in India.

Anyway, I am psyched about Sheena Matheiken’s idea and will watch daily as she transforms her look.  Also, anyone can donate money or accessories to the cause.  Check it out!  uniform project.  If you want to read my slow clothing piece go to http://www.sallybjornsenwrites.com/2009/03/17/slow-clothing/.

Cleaning House in the White Collar Ghetto

I am slightly, just slightly embarrassed to say that I don’t really know how to clean my house.  Oh no, poor me, right?  I sound like a big, spoiled brat but it’s more complicated than that.  Ever since the recession hit I have been looking for ways to cut corners. The $500 monthly cleaning expense seemed like the most obvious and prudent solution (who can’t clean their own house?)  Last week, in an effort to be financially responsible I laid off our cleaning lady of eight years.  It was a serious and sad breakup.  I had been preparing for d-day, rehearsing my “your job has been made redundant” speech in the full length mirror.  She handled it well, said she had actually been expecting it.  Once it was over I felt relieved.  

For nearly twenty years now I have employed a cleaning person.  Some years she/he came once a week and others every other week.  In the back of my mind I often felt a little, oh I don’t know, lame, because I couldn’t or wouldn’t do it myself.   But I justified the expense thinking that I would be more successful in my own career without the stress of a messy and, god forbid, dirty house.   The household duties, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning the baseboards and folding the laundry are best when left to the experts I told myself.  

So here I am today, pondering how to clean the hardwood floors throughout the house.  Is it simply water with a splash of white vinegar?  Special hardwood cleaning fluid?  Organic soap?  Lemon fresh polish?  A swiffer picker upper?  A $500 dollar Dyson?   A Roomba?  Ayy yi yi.   And that’s just the floors.  After that there is the dilemma of cleaning the floor to ceiling glass shower, how does one attack that and with what sort of substance? Will I need gloves and a face mask?   

I made a trip to the grocery store this week hoping to get inspired by the cleaning options available to me—the fledgling domestic mother.  I have never seen so many “new and improved,” “better than ever,” “save your soul,” products, it was downright overwhelming.  Finally I landed on something I simply could not pass up, The Evriholder Slipper Genie Microfiber Cleaning Slippers.  Slippers that are actually mops?  Now that’s my kind of house cleaning solution—passive floor mopping at its best.   I know what I am getting the kids for Christmas.

It’s only been a week and I miss my cleaning woman already.  She came with all her stuff, including her vacuum cleaner, cob web getter, stainless steel hoo hah, lemon fresh something or other and most importantly, her years of experience.  Perhaps the $500 a month wasn’t so bad after all.

lululemon, She May be Cute but She Has a Bad Personality

The girls working at lululemon are bitches.   And I am not just saying that because lulu is the cutest girl in town, I’m saying it because it’s true.  Someday….just you wait, another brand will come along with a much better personalilty and lulu will have her comeuppance.

Last week I spied a super cute pair of shorts on a women in my yoga class.  So cute, that I made a special trip to University Village to pick up a pair.  Of course there were so many cute things at the lulu store that I walked away with a bag full of stuff, two reversible dresses, two pair of shorts and a pair pants.  To say it was a pretty penny is a huge understatement.  But they were having a promotion and I had to take advantage…right? 

Anyway, when I got home I realized that I had gone a tad overboard.  I live in Seattle and there isn’t enough sun to warrant more than two pair of shorts and one dress per summer season.  So with that reasoning I decided I would return one reversible dress and a pair of coulote shorts.  Unbeknownst to me, however, I had committed a major faux pas—I had pulled off the annoying white size tag from the reversible dress, you know the one, it looks like a tail. 

When I returned to the store with the item, and all of its tags the girl said “Sorry, you took off the tag.  We cannot return it.”  “But here’s the tag,” I begged.  “Sorry, once the tag is removed we can no longer return it.”    Now, for the record I have been in retail off and on in my life for about twenty years.  I cut my teeth when I was 16 on the sales floor at Nordstrom, so I know “the customer is always right.”  Also, I know that if a customer spends over $500 and returns only a 1/3 of her original purchase, with all of her receipts and tags, she’s probably not a criminal.  Well, this reasoning doesn’t follow at lulu.  The twenty-something snotty brat took a firm stance.  I was horrified at her inconsiderate, disrespectful behavior.  Not only am I twenty year’s older than she is but I am a mother, a wife and a career woman and that makes me a role model—right?   

I made a bit of a stink, gave her the hairy eyeball and told her she was poorly behaved.  Eventually the ill mannered girl came around to giving me a refund but not without major attitude. 

This is not the first time I have been treated badly at lululemon.  The company is Canadian, you’d think they’d be nicer—isn’t that the sterotype?  Bottom line…those lulu girls are bitches but when a cuter girl with a better personality moves into town, and she will, she always does,  lulu will be begging for my business and I’ll say, sorry I’m playing with Lucy.