GIGI GOES GAGA

NAKED EYES

Each day at work I see women in various states of undress, depending on how comfortable they are with being practically naked with a stranger. Within minutes of breaking the ice I have my hands touching the small of their backs, my fingers tugging at straps and fiddling with clasps. I teach them how to lean forward and touch their own bodies, to scoop their breasts into bra cups and show them to their best advantage. But most of all, I think, I simply ask them to embrace their bodies and be a little kinder to themselves.

Because not one woman I've seen -- in all these years that I've seen women without their clothes on -- has been completely happy with her body. I repeat this: not one.

Not even the women who spend more time in the gym than in the kitchen, or even the ones who have been injected, sucked, pulled, and augmented. Somehow, the women I see always manage to find a body part or feature they are wholly dissatisfied with. "I have no boobs!" some wail. "I wish I didn't have such big boobs," others complain. Many see fat where I simply see skin, and some even apologize for it, letting me know that they're working on removing all traces of it in the gym. They say this as if I'm offended by skin less than perfectly taut.They don't see what I see: a woman with a body unlike anyone else's, simply because no one else has lived her life.

If you don't know this about me already, I sell lingerie. My specialty is bra fittings -- which I happen to love because when I'm in the fitting room I'm part-therapist and part-educator, never a salesperson. You see, when a woman has her shirt off in front of me and is feeling pretty vulnerable, the last thing she wants is to feel that I'm trying to take advantage of the situation by selling to her instead of helping her, of taking instead of giving.

I've learned so much about my fellow women doing what I do. I've discovered that many women hold such rigidly dichotomous view of themselves. For instance, when they ask me for a bra they can wear at work, they explain that they want something comfortable enough to wear all day and that will prevent bits and pieces from peeking through their shirt. They usually also mean they don't want anything sexy. When I do get them into a bra that does what they want and also gives them terrific cleavage they're uncomfortable with the view, even if they don't wear shirts cut low enough to actually expose anything south of their collarbones at work. I hear them say their boyfriends or husbands would love to see them in this bra, but...

And they say this as I see them smile at their image in the mirror, their "girls" looking perky and uplifted. But it won't do for work. If only I could tell them that underneath MY shirt here at work, I have pretty amazing cleavage, with some thanks to recent bra technology -- and no one knows but me, and that's good enough as far as I'm concerned.

The other day a woman marched up to me, complaining that none of our bras were comfortable. She told me what size she was, declining a proper bra fitting. When she asked me to take a look and see the "bad fit" of the bra she was wearing I saw immediately that she was at least a 34DD and that she'd had breast augmentation; her breasts were stretched thin, appeared hard and unnaturally round. No judgment here, just an observation. And another: she was wearing the wrong size bra.

I gently explained that a larger cup would provide a much more comfortable fit, especially at the bottom of her breast area, where she said it hurt when she wore our bras. She refused; she insisted she didn't want to wear anything larger than a 34C. I couldn't figure out why someone would choose to wear a too-small bra, especially when doing so caused any kind of pain or discomfort, but I could tell she wasn't going to budge. At this point there was nothing more I could do for her, and she left saying she'd go somewhere else to find what she was looking for.

As I saw her standing there earlier, I realized that she looked like a centerfold model: tall, lean, tanned, blond -- and with massive boobs barely contained by swatches of fabric. Then it hit me like a thunderbolt: that was exactly what she wanted to look like! She wanted to look like that every single day. The problem is that in real life if you wear something too small, you're uncomfortable -- period. If you want to look like the cover of a men's magazine, put on the tiny outfit and take a picture. Then take the damn thing off and wear something sexy but comfortable, something that actually fits right.

Somewhere in the middle of asexual and sex object is a real woman. My job in the fitting room -- as far as I'm concerned -- is to help her see it, if she doesn't already, but through her own eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

THE SEX INDEX?

First there was the Hemline Index, then the Lipstick Indicator. More recently we've seen the Nail Polish Effect and the Necktie Index. Even bra sales recently pointed the way, it seems. But now the latest consumer category to lay bare signs of our economic condition is, literally, a much sexier one.

Consumer behavior changes accordingly as confidence in the economy falls, we've seen that time and time again. For instance, I'll still part with $25 for a luxury lipstick or limited-edition nail polish occasionally (although I'll give it way more thought than I used to), but I haven't purchased a bag or pair of shoes in a while. Still I have to admit that I was a bit surprised when I read that sex toy sales have boomed as a result of this bust.

According to the online sex toy distributor quoted in the CNBC article published last Thursday, “At a time when unemployment is high and bank account balances are low, people are passing the time by getting busy." I suppose it helps that with more people unemployed, there's more time for couples to spend together; after all, one can only update and send out resumes for so long until feeling disheartened and weary. And when one's spouse or partner is also homebound from being unemployed, there's not enough funds in the piggy bank to dine out or watch a movie (around $10.75 per person in my neck of the woods!). So what do you do?

At least, that's the theory. My guess is that because you can now buy your pack of condoms or vibrator along with, say, your beach read and sunscreen at Amazon.com, doing so is just not as daunting a task as it used to be. Once upon a time, it would require a drive to the nearest sex store (which usually was not just around the street corner, depending on where you lived) or remembering to clear your internet browser history when you searched for "sex toy online stores." And while friends and associates may not necessarily give you a gift certificate to The Pleasure Chest or Good Vibrations, they have absolutely no idea how you'd spend your Amazon gift card (my former boss sure doesn't know what I did with his Christmas present to me -- thankfully).

In other words, I'm wondering if, once again, sex has benefited from technology, more than from the faltering economy. We can go down the list of all new technologies from the past couple of centuries and discover how sex was always right at the forefront. For instance, many early filmmakers tantalized audiences with depictions of sexuality until government censorship came into the picture. And even if online shopping has been around for a long time, there are considerably more places to shop on the internet now. I still remember when I certainly wouldn't have looked for lube at a bookseller site!

Whatever the reasons may be for this sales surge, it's clear that sex sells -- always has, always will. Even when not much else does, apparently.

Note: You know the Swedish product that Stefan Dallakian of Paris Intimates describes in the CNBC article as “the Bentley of vibrators at the price of a well-equipped Hyundai"? I'll spare you the research: It's this brand, I bet. You can take it from this gal who remembers what it was like when it wasn't so easy to shop for a little self-satisfaction.

WHEN PRETTY GETS UGLY

I confess: I like pretty things.

Even when I had just moved out on my own and could barely manage to pay rent and utilities every month, I lived as well as I possibly could. I had only two sets of plates, bowls, goblets, cutlery, and napkins -- but they were the best that I could afford at the time. Same went for my towels and sheets, and pretty much everything that I touched -- including my bath products, even toothpaste. I suppose it was my way of reassuring myself that constant deprivation didn't have to mean complete self-denial. I didn't have a lot -- but I surrounded myself with only things that I loved.

But then as the years went by, I accumulated so much more, even if there has never been more than two persons in my household at any given time. I'm certain I have enough dinnerware to entertain a party of 20 -- even if no more than four persons can fit comfortably in my dining area. I have enough towels to hand out to all the folks bathing in the community pool. I own so much cookware and serveware that I need to store half of them in the garage -- which means that they don't get used. Let's not even discuss my clothing, accessories, and shoes, which are spilling out of every possible storage area in this 1040 sq. ft. townhome. You get the idea, I'm sure: there's just way too much in here.

But now I'm in a period of transition and I need to pack everything up. Every day, I eye all my possessions wearily, and the task before me always feels a bit too overwhelming. How did I end up with all this stuff, stuff that I now have to box up, store, sell, donate, or give away? I mean, do I really need four table lamps in my tiny home office cum guest room? (Definitely not.) I've said it before in this blog and I'll say it again: there comes a time when stuff turns into shit, especially when you have to move all of it, and the time is now.

For the past couple of years, however, I've stepped on the shopping brakes to stop this runaway train. Before buying anything, I remember that I have to find room for it (not so easy to do these days). If I'm undeterred, I ask myself if I really have any need for it, or if I already have something similar. And if I still find myself tempted to pull out my wallet, I remind myself that I'll need to organize or clean it regularly -- and that usually does the trick. The last time I cleaned out and organized my closets I felt like one of those World War II soldiers emerging from the inner depths of the jungle 30 years later to find the world had passed them by.

So I no longer use credit; I use cash for everything. I have one account I use for non-essentials, and my company deposits only a small amount in it weekly. So even if a dress I've been eyeing for months finally goes on sale at 70% off, if I don't have the money in my spending account then I can't buy it, period. I save up for what I want, and if what I want is no longer available, then I reassure myself there will always be something else that will catch my eye.

What I've discovered is that I'm way more judicious now; I don't fall in love too easily anymore. And what I do decide to purchase -- usually after at least a couple of weeks of saving up for it -- I treasure even more. I've always been really good about taking care of my things; after all, I still wear clothing I purchased more than ten years ago and people ask me where I got them, as if I just bought them over the weekend. But now I remember what I had to give up in order to get what I want, hopefully need, and now each piece has a more meaningful story.

I'm also finding out that the less I can have, the less I really need, and the happier I am with what I do have. I almost long for those days when I only had two of everything -- one for me, one for a special guest -- because that was all I really needed. I still like pretty things -- I suspect I always will -- but I've since learned that too much of pretty can get pretty ugly. When everything is packed up in a few months, I'd only have kept the most valuable, necessary, and meaningful, and I plan to keep it that way. I've been saying repeatedly that I'm ready to fly, after all -- and the only way I can is to keep my load light.

And now excuse me while I pack up all this shit. I can assure you that they're not looking too pretty right now, even if they once did.

 

 

 

BUSTED

My brother-in-law flew into town yesterday and decided to spend the night at our place."Give me 10 minutes," I told him. "I just need to put some stuff away in the (guest) room."

Which really meant that I needed to put shoes back into the closet so we could make room for him. Not an easy task at the moment. Because I'm fastidious about caring for my shoes and would never ever think of tossing my footwear into a heap, boxes are literally spilling out of every nook and cranny . See, each pair goes inside its own box, each labeled with a brief description (brand, style, color). Right now there are five columns of boxes filling half the closet, each about 20 rows high. I need a stepladder just to get to anything on the top rows -- which isn't as much of a problem as how to get to the boxes stacked at the bottom, if you think about it.

Outside the closet door is another five columns of the same, around eight boxes high, which will never join their siblings inside because there's simply no more room for them. If I stack any more, I'll no longer be able to reach the handle and slide open the closet door. Which explains why I had more boxes stacked by the stereo -- which I now had to find room for so that our houseguest wouldn't feel like he was drowning in shoes, or at least think that he was being forced to sleep inside a shoe stockroom.

As I was sitting on the floor gently contemplating my task at hand, trying to use my basic knowledge of high school geometry so that I could figure out how I could fit more boxes into zero space, my husband walked in to see what I was up to. I hate it when he does that, because it never ends up well.

He: What's taking you so long? L's falling asleep on the couch already.

Me: (Mumbles incoherently on purpose.)

He: Do you have more shoes now??? (Slides open the closet door. I hate it when he does that, too, because I know he'll freak out when he sees boxes all the way up to the ceiling. But I can't stop him.) WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY???

Me: (Putting on calm, rational face.) I take care of my shoes really well. I have so many pairs that I got way before I even met you and they still look like I just got them yesterday.

He: But why is it that when we moved in here there was enough room for them inside the closet and now there isn't?

Me: (Moment of panicked silence.)

He: Did you take any shoe boxes from the garage? Or from inside the hall closet?

Me: (Taking the Fifth.)

He: I can't believe we're running out of space because of...shoes! (Makes an exasperated sound and then walks away while making grunting noises.)

Hmmm. Maybe he won't notice then if I get these, after all then. I mean, would anyone notice if one more book was added to the New York Public Library? In the meantime I think I need to brush up on my geometry -- because if I don't, my husband may force me to use simple arithmetic and learn how to subtract a pair before I add another.

SHOOTING THE FASHION POLICE

I suppose it's evident that I love fashion more than the next person -- depending on who that person next to me is, of course. My love for fashion is much more than just a predilection for clothes shopping; I view it as art and business masterfully blended and find its constant change exciting -- and yet I don't take it too seriously. I do spend a bulk of my time reading fashion magazines and trade publications, scouring the internet for on-the-minute updates, and - yes -- checking out what's in stores (OK -- shopping), so much so that I'm pretty well-versed with the latest looks and upcoming trends, but it's all purely for my personal entertainment. Watching, say, a Vera Wang Fall fashion show online can give me the same kind of extraordinary rush that a Lakers fan got out of following the 2009 NBA championship games. And speaking of games, my idea of one is walking into a store, spotting a dominant trend, and betting to myself whether it will fly or fail -- and I love it when I'm right, even if I don't get to win a prize.

One would think I'd be the kind of person who gets a thrill out of Fashion Police type of articles, posts, and TV shows -- you know, the ones that declare when someone's got it all wrong. The ones that sneer at the "worst dressed" celebrities, even the ones who look all schlumpy on their days off. Well, I don't. The truth is that these irritate the heck out of me almost all of the time (except when self-declared fashion experts get it wrong themselves -- and then I revel in shadenfreude like an alcoholic trapped inside a bar). It simply reeks of snooty superiority and it's often downright cruel. Besides, if you read as many fashion articles as I do, you'd know that oftentimes, what one editor thinks is brilliant is the same as what another commentator condemns as hideous. Anyway, I think people should be able to express themselves and have fun with what they're wearing, or at the very least feel comfortable and be able to move around and do the things they need to do without feeling unencumbered by what they have on.

Of course, as with everything else in life, there are exceptions. There are occasions when what you choose to wear shows respect and courtesy. For instance, I think guests should make an effort to look nice when they attend a wedding -- it lets the hosts know that their event mattered, that it meant something special to their guests as well. But I also believe it's never a good thing to try to outshine or outdo the bride either; those who do are, in my opinion at least, tacky and rude and perhaps horribly insecure or alarmingly narcissistic. And so, for the same reason, I take care to look properly somber at a funeral or wake, the same way I would want to look festive at a summer night's party or elegant at a dinner event. If the host thinks I was important enough to invite, then I feel it's just right to reciprocate and show you feel the same way about him or her. The effort and consideration is what matters.

There are places where image also matters. For instance, business dress codes serve a purpose; they express expectations and priorities to the employee and communicate something about the company to its clients and vendors. And even in workplaces where there are none, it also reveals the same to all of the above. And let's not forget that it's considered sage advice to dress for the position you want rather than for the one you already have. Sometimes there are fashion rules, at times there's just common sense.

Otherwise I don't think it's anyone else's business what any of us choose to wear. I might softly giggle at the sight of the woman in front of me in the supermarket checkout line who's wearing a wild profusion of different animal prints from top to toe. I may do a double-take when I see a girl at the mall oblivious to the sight of her many rolls of belly fat fully exposed from her squeezing into a too-tight short tee and very-low-cut skinny jeans. Most likely I will roll my eyeballs when I see the top of a guy's boxer shorts above a pair of pants four sizes too big. But no matter what I might think or how I react, it's not my world that others only live in and I don't get to decide who's in or out. It's only my opinion and I don't have a license to inflict cruelty on anyone just because we don't see things the same way. No one does.

CUSTOMER SERVICE...REDEFINED?

My friend N was visibly annoyed. Seething, even. See, he had stopped by Seafood City, a Filipino grocery store in Cerritos, CA, to pick up a few items on his way home. At around 8:30 PM he heard a booming voice announce that all prepared hot food items were half-off. He hadn't planned to stop by that section but he figured that it would save him some time from having to cook dinner once he finally got home -- and better yet, save him some cash, too.

By the time he got there, a swarm of shoppers had already picked up everything they could get their hands on. He saw a container of crispy pata (deep-fried pork leg) and put it  his basket. As he got to the check-out aisle, an elderly woman was in front of him. She was writing out a check to pay for her purchase and was moving at a snail's pace. In the meantime, the cashier showed her slight impatience by moving her dentures up and down the roof of her mouth. She stopped when she saw my friend standing in line, watching her intently.

The cashier looked at N's items on the counter, and then looked at him inquisitively. "Were there any more of the crispy patas back there?" she asked in Tagalog. He nodded. "Can you do me a favor and grab one of those for me?" she instructed.

N figured that the customer in front of him had forgotten to pick up the item and thought that if she went back to do so he'd be waiting even longer. "Here," he told the cashier, "take mine and I'll grab another one for myself." And then he walked away.

When he got back, he saw the customer leave -- and noticed that the container he supposedly had given her was still where he'd set it down. "So she decided not to get it after all?" he asked the cashier, mildly irritated.

"No," she answered. "It's for me. I didn't cook so there's no food at home."

His eyes were still bulging from both anger and disbelief while he was telling me his story: "Can you believe it? She actually asked me -- a customer -- to go and get her dinner?"

I suppose at this store, at least for this one employee, the term "Customer Service" has taken on a whole new meaning.

IT'S LIKE RIDING A BIKE...

When I finally learn how to ride a bike, I'll know what it means -- to never forget how to do something so simple and basic once you've learned it. I mean, I can swim -- or more precisely, I can float. I can get myself from one end of the pool to the other, but it doesn't look pretty when I do it. And swim in the ocean? I have absolutely no concept of what that's like either. Pathetic, you say? But at least I can relate to the adage "It's like learning how to swim." Or float, in my case. It's almost the same thing, I say.

But no matter, I am determined to learn how to ride a bike and when I do, it will be on one of these cruisers. By the way, I have no idea what a cruiser is; it just looks like something I can keep my balance on. Now you folks who know technical things about bikes might tell me why other brands are better but I won't be listening. I mean, look how thoroughly delightful and lovely these are! And if I can't look pretty getting from Point A to B on a bicycle, then I'd might as well ride on one so nice that people might not notice the person on top of it. At least that's how I'm rationalizing all of this right now.

OK, so I can't make up my mind as to which one I want. All I know is I want a basket on the handlebars, and maybe even a little bell.

This is Surf. Perfect for biking around South Orange County, where I live, 'no?

  And this is Daisy. Daisies are among my favorite flowers -- they look so happy. Like the way I will look when I finally learn how to ride a bike so I can get to the store to buy freshly-baked French bread and a bouquet of daisies on an early Sunday morning. Which of course I will place inside the basket sitting atop the handlebars.

  I don't really like the look of this final one, but I love its name. Meet Gigi.

  If you happen to be in my neck of the woods sometime soon (hopefully) and see a slightly off-balance, too-happy girl on a cute bicycle with a basket holding a loaf of bread and a bouquet of flowers, then don't forget to say hello to me OK? I'll even ring my little bell to say hello back.

MY CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS

In my room at the office, on top of one of the massive filing cabinets that line the walls, is a tiny artificial Christmas tree. It's not shaped like a pyramid, the way all Christmas trees often look; its plastic branches are spare, it's adorned with one tiny red glass ornament, and its base is two rough-hewn wood planks attached crosswise. A few people walk in and recognize it instantly: it's Charlie Brown's Pathetic Tree. Every year, right after Thanksgiving, I take the box out of storage and carry it under my arm to work. It's there to remind me of the true spirit of the season. And this year, I need that more than ever.

Just like almost everyone around us, we're feeling the economic pinch; sometimes, though, it feels more like a stranglehold. We've made a few adjustments to our lifestyle -- well, me more than my husband, really, because he lives pretty lean to begin with. I still need to trim off a bit of the fat: I continue to purchase a few pieces of clothing and accessories, a couple of beauty items here and there, and even the occasional impulse-item magazine at the drugstore when I pick up my prescriptions. I really don't need any more of the above (except for my meds, of course), but for now the difference is that before I go to the counter I think thrice as hard. Soon, I hope that I'll take too long thinking that I'll be too exhausted to walk over and queue up at the cash wrap. The reality is that I'll probably just buy only what I truly love if it's not something I really need, but will endeavor to love less. It's a bit of a mental struggle, but I'm getting there.

Now I'm not religious, not in any sense of the word, but this season is always serious stuff for me. This time of year I think about what's truly important in life: the people I love and who love me in return, and even of the people whom I don't know or will never ever know but whom I need to be considerate of nonetheless. I remind myself to be thankful and appreciative, to be grateful. To try to give back when I've received. And I try to dig deep and find all that's compassionate inside me so that I can understand and forgive and mend fissures that I've chosen to ignore or overlook all year through.

Now love is easy for me. What's complicated is trying to keep loving someone who can strike deeper and slash harder than anyone else can because you share the same DNA or the same memories and experiences or perhaps because you've let them in closer than you'd allow anyone else to. Again, it seems to be particularly more complicated for me at the moment.

Christmas this year, for me, is about letting go and letting in. I'm trying to let go of what's non-essential because I ought to worry only about what's absolutely necessary. And I'm also trying to let back in those who are truly essential to my life, but for now feel rather useless because of the pain they bring. The beauty of it all is that during Christmas, all things seem possible. After all, this season is about faith, hope, and salvation -- and even if I don't use these words strictly within a Christian context these days, they promise miracles, as long as I keep believing. And I do.

LIPS TELL NO LIES

I stopped by the nearest Sephora today and was literally stopped in my tracks by a line to the cash register snaking almost all the way to the entrance. My immediate thought: maybe they're giving away free stuff (next thought: I want me some of that!). But I observed the folks both in the queue and behind the cash wrap and didn't notice anything unusual. No coupons, no secret passwords, and certainly no free stuff.

Shrugging my shoulders, I walked over to the NARS aisle to pick up a tube of lipstick in the newest shade, Canaille (a sheer, shimmering mahogany -- in case anyone cares to know). I'd been searching for it since the holiday collection hit the stores, to no avail. It's been out of stock everywhere I've been -- just as it was here now again. I wrinkled my nose: what recession has everyone been talking about all year? Could there possibly be one when folks seem to have no qualms about purchasing a $24 tube of lipstick? (OK, I'm not exactly flush with cash, but you all probably know by now that I'd go without food for a day if it meant I could buy something I coveted at the cosmetics section.)

And then I remembered that lipstick sales have commonly been interpreted as an economic indicator: when they go up, the economy is down. Makes a bit of sense to me: if I'd lost half my fortune and could no longer afford to buy a Chanel bag for $3,000+, for instance, I'd probably still be able to pay less than 30 bucks for a tube of their lipstick. And anyway, as for me, a swipe of color on my lips can usually brighten up my morning -- and more importantly, my smile. With the way things are going around here, the only thing I can really do is simply grin and bear it. Might as well look pretty doing it.

A DIAPER WHAT???

I just came from a baby shower. Lovely affair really -- good company, lots of delicious food, beautiful home, and a nice, sunny day. The thing with baby showers, though, is that with each one I attend I become more and more perplexed.

It's a tradition, I suppose, that at one point the soon-to-be mom sits in the middle of the room surrounded by her guests while a close friend or family member is at her side writing down who gave what. One year I was that person, and my girlfriend soon regretted assigning me with that responsibility: I had no idea what each gadget or doodad was for so what was supposed to be a simple and routine task was anything but. That was also the year, by the way, that I learned what a diaper genie was (which I listed as a "thingy for diapers").

Today was no different. It was some kind of special pillow that threw me; I still have no idea what it's called or what it's for but all the moms in the room agreed it was necessary even if I've never heard anyone wish they had it before. It seems like there's always some new invention for pregnant women and babies -- which means that each year I become even more confused than the last.  It also means that I am  NOT the person to consult regarding baby gifts and that when I have to buy one I simply purchase a gift card.

Which is exactly what my friend received from me today. And I think she looked quite relieved, really. I mean, I would be, too, if I were her -- it's like when a man tries to buy me lingerie and gifts me with an itchy lace thong when what I'd really prefer to wear is a silky boy short. I suppose if you don't have first-hand experience with something, it's kind of hard to figure out what it's like for someone else. Like, for instance, does this tub go inside the one already in the bathroom? I don't think I'll ever know -- but I'm willing to bet that next year, something else will go inside it.