The Visa Diaries

A few months ago, a friend told me that if he heard the phrase “In this economy” one more time, he might explode. Little did we know, then, how many more times we’d get to hear it, and, frankly, how much more we’d care about hearing it. How we’d probably come to hang on the words of stories that began that way, and how we’d pray to move beyond it.

This is a story that begins “In this economy.” It’s a story about the joy that consumables can bring us, and the ability to find that joy for under $20. It’s a story about a showerhead that has changed my life, or at the very least, my mornings.

I live in San Francisco. I know I’ve mentioned that, but to me, San Francisco goes against the status quo. My default location tends to be the east coast, where life is both more coarse and more refined. Faster in the north where I tend to take quick trips to New York, slower in the south where I like to linger for weeks or months. Life on the east coast is not about a wholeness of the soul. Little time is spent talking about work/life balance, or balance of any sort, really. But life in San Francisco is somewhat obsessed with this. Companies compete to offer the most holistic view of life–which inevitably includes a LOT of work, but also a bit of a balancing act. At least, companies give the promise of this, and I’d argue it’s more prevalent in SF than back east.

And yet, people here still work too much. I work too much. I am constantly trying to balance my desire to press ahead in my career, working as hard as I can, with taking some time to relax and enjoy what’s around me. This has rarely been more startling than last night, when watching the Real Housewives of New York City. I only caught a few minutes of the episode, but as one couple departed Brooklyn for St. Barts, I realized I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I ever took a vacation as an adult. In fact, I have never taken an actual vacation, if you consider a vacation a trip where you go to spend time away from work that doesn’t include a family reunion or visiting friends. My trips are always, always, always to visit family or friends. This idea of taking time away from work and spending money on myself is just not something I engage in. I hope one day I will.

In the meantime, and “in this economy,” I’m trying to find pleasure in the small things. My consumer victories are fewer and farther between, and they also are less costly. But they are there… in the happy hour glass of wine or the deal on Kiehl’s shampoo at Marshall’s or the use of a frequent flyer flight on JetBlue. One of these recent purchases has made a bigger impact than the fleeting high of getting a good deal, it actually has changed my attitude about luxuries in my own home.

Last fall sometime, my showerhead began to squeal. Not all the time, but LOUDLY and without avail when you changed one of the pressure settings. Then, in early winter, it began to squeal all the time. I was fearful my neighbors might one morning break down my door, demanding that I turn off the water and with it, that bloody high-pitched scream. So onto my Christmas list went a consumable: new showerhead. My only wishes were that it be the handheld kind, be silver, and have multiple water spouts. I also hoped it would cost less than $40.

My parents found one at Bed Bath and Beyond for $60, got the online price in-store at $50, and used a 20% coupon. This brought us down to somewhere around my price point. I got the gift on Christmas morning, but saw the $60 price tag and was appalled. Even when they told me they’d spent less, I decided to keep looking to find something less expensive. It’s a showerhead, for goodness sake, and in my mind, utilitarian items should be cheap.

I kept looking, and eventually found the identical showerhead at Marshall’s for only $19.99. I was thrilled. I lamented the economy, the fact that goods were selling for next-to-nothing in January, but I scooped it up, installed it in my apartment in SF, and anxiously awaited a new-and-improved, non-squealing shower. Little did I know I would come to love it.

My first shower was an adjustment. I had to find the right water setting out of all 12 promised by the manufacturer. I discovered that there were truly only 6 settings, and that each of those individual spray-types had a low-to-high pressure scale, yielding at least 6 additional sensations. And in this selection process, I found a setting I’ve never had on a shower before. It is a fine, delicate mist, but with enough spouts to give even, adequate pressure. It is great. To me, it feels like standing in a rain forest, surrounded by lush green foliage with specks of bright blue sky coming in through the leaves.

This entirely new feeling means that I now look forward to my showers. They are points of luxury, of relaxation, of indulgence in my day. As my own private rain forest inside my SF concrete jungle, they are the counterpoint to my stresses. What’s even better is that these showers have opened my eyes to other indulgences at home that I have been missing. Like making time to sit on my rooftop and look out over the San Francisco Bay, or to do yoga in the evenings in my living room.

My point in telling you all of this, in light of “this economy,” is that reclaiming the luxuries right under our noses can be rewarding in lean and lush times alike. And so in light of balance, I’d like to offer a gentle nudge toward seeking your own (small) indulgences. Toward giving your day a bright spot to counter all those stories that begin  “In this economy…”

I am not usually on the bleeding edge of trends. An early adopter maybe, but there’s always a bunch of funky ‘kids’ in Williamsburg or Shoreditch or wherever doing anything before me. Which incidentally reminds me of a joke I heard recently about those Williamsburg hipsters:

Q: How many hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: You don’t know???

Ha!

Anyway, back to our story. In light of all this, I was completely thrilled when my friend Christy invited me to go see a hot up and coming band last thursday. Not only are hot and up and coming (and my resident hispter-at-work Noah had not even heard of them yet) but they are locals from my new home-sweet-some Brooklyn. For all those reasons I was disposed to like them, but then on top of all that, they have about the best band name I have heard in a long time: Yeasayer.

It may not sound like much, but I think the world is in need of a little saying yes these days. A little more ’sure, we can work that out’ and a little less ‘not my problem, mate.’ A little more of, “yes I care, yes I am engaged, yes I want to take action and make even a small difference.” “No, I am not too cool for school!” (see, that double negative there, is like a yes

Yes is more than a word, it is a very powerful attitude that influences how we are in the world. I recently spent 2 days at a corporate offsite for a client, which was perhaps a bit corporate for my taste, but was facilitated by some very cool improv actors who had all sorts of pearls of improv wisdom. One of the groud rules of improv, apparently, is to take everything done by other actors as ‘offerings’ and go, ‘yes, and…’ as opposed to ‘that’s stupid!’ or just ignoring it, which are called ‘blocks.’ We all know blockers, don’t we, and boy who wants to hang out with them? ‘Yes’ allows creative flow, ‘no’ cuts it right off. The more we say ‘yes’ to the offers already on the table in our lives, the more will come into our life in unpredicatable ways. Equally, the more we refuse offers, the safer and more predictable, along with stuck and boring, it becomes. They called accepting offers ‘allowing yourself to be changed by others’, which I also think the world could use a little more of these days.

There is also that famous story about how John Lennon and Yoko Ono met in a show of hers in a gallery in London. She had a piece that required visitors to climb a ladder to read something on the ceiling. It was a framed piece of paper that said, “Yes.” Lennon recalled later, “So it was positive. I felt relieved.”

In light of this positive spirit, I said “yes” to a lovely Yeasayer tee-shirt, which I am happily wearing as I write this. Oh, and the music was great too. Check it out at http://www.myspace.com/yeasayer

Oh dear. sigh. Has it really been so long? I know it must be bad when my father of all people says to me, “Kate, you’ve basically shut down visa diaries, haven’t you?” My father is not a man who is waiting for his latest dose of shopping gossip, so for him to notice - ouch.

Good thing Carter wrote just a little while ago, or else I would really only be hearing the lonely echo of my own tappity-taps on the keyboard. Good thing she wrote… except for the fact that she has just (and justly) shamed my more consumeristic and less socially conscious urges. How am I supposed to gloat about a new pair of shoes or sunglasses now that she has reduced them to nothing but a pile of toxic chemical inputs and permanent landfill outputs?? Ironically, I happen to be doing a project for a major cosmetics brand at work, and as a result have been buying all sorts of new make-up… not that I would tell you all about my peacock liquid eyeliner, or my new ‘deep throat’ blusher, because then I’d be shamed off the Internet - the shallow one who still bought lipgloss as the planet was burning…

Ok ok, I’m sure that’s a little extreme. I know that we are all making pained noises about the planet, while we semi-abashedly continue to buy take-out for every meal and forget to bring our eco-bags to Whole Foods. I am not the only one. But still, let’s have a think about less toxic lipgloss alternatives in the world of shopping and consumption. I mean honestly, there are a million and one ways to spend our money, and surely we can still shop and be decent global citizens at the same time.

Perhaps this is a good time to test out my theory that high design is good for the planet. Here’s why I think so: highly designed things are more expensive, so they create more wealth - more gdp, which is what the capitalists care about - with fewer natural resources. Plus, well designed and made products should also work better and be more pleasing to have around, so they generally raise satisfaction in using and owning them, and we will hang on to them longer. A truly classic design never goes out of style, and if for some reason it no longer fits into your home, it will be snapped up on eBay quicker than you can say “mid-century modern.”

For example, if I could afford it, I would buy this chair from Linge Roset:

I have seriously been coveting this chair for almost 10 years, since I first saw it in the swanky Istanbul house of some Eurotrash friends of mine. Since it costs, like, mega-bucks, a couple of years ago I bought a pair of knock-offs at Urban Outfitters. They have the same general shape, but are missing the extra excessive cotton padding and pillow-y down-y feel. Result: as soon as I can afford it, I will buy the Ligne Rosset original, and get rid of my knock-offs. Hopefully not just trash them, hopefully pass them along, but still. The point is that it would have just been better to buy the real, good object that I wanted to begin with, and then keep that forever.

So, how is my Post-Lipglossist theory shaping up? I admit that probably there is still some hard scholarship to be done, but basically I think Post-Lipglossism is just a fancy word for that age old wisdom: Two Zaras do not a Prada make…! er, um, I mean quality is better than quantity…

BY CARTER

Today’s top story on nytimes.com was accompanied by the subhead “A pullback in spending raises the possibility that the country may be experiencing a rare decline in personal consumption.” And in my mind, this is a good thing.

For the last six months of my life, I have been trying to consume less. Moving all of my items across the country via Amtrak, and paying by the pound, made me evaluate all the stuff I have accumulated over the years and what is really essential in my life. Additionally, I decided when I moved to San Francisco that I would attempt to buy more used items and fewer brand new pieces. This hasn’t prevented me from taking a million trips to Ikea and Target (I chose to buy new silverware, dishes, and glasses, along with other items), but it has meant that every piece of furniture in my apartment (save one) is recycled in one way or another. I have chairs and small cabinets and curtain panels I found on the street, an antique mahogany dining table that I purchased from craigslist for a mere $80, a Le Corbusier chair I snatched for $120, and a quirky set of knicks and knacks that I’ve gathered at thrift stores and yard sales and giveaways. When I have bought new items, I have attempted to buy pieces that are somewhat natural (like all-wool rugs from Ikea) and new make-up from bare Escentuals.

I’ve attempted to go more natural with my make-up and personal care products… things like soap and body oils and lotions and lip balms that I needed to restock when I arrived in California. After reading up on most of my personal products on the Skin Deep database, I made the decision to pay a premium for higher-quality, more health- and earth-friendly products; this also meant that I relinquished my habit of buying lip glosses every few months that I didn’t need, lotions just because I like them, or shampoos just because they smell good. Instead, I now buy natural soaps that do not contain sulfates or artificial fragrances, and I’ve weened myself off Carmex in favor of cocoa butter (Carmex actually causes lips to chap and flake since it contains salicylic acid… in effect, Carmex can be addictive, not to mention its harmful rating on the Skin Deep database).

And one fact compounded all of these decisions: a few weeks ago, I heard on NPR that nothing in modern landfills biodegrades. Nothing. Food from the 1950s has been found in landfills, along with millions of other items that “ought” to biodegrade. Since modern landfills have no air circulation, and since biodegrading requires oxygen, there is no way for anything to decompose. Which essentially means that anything we throw away, we are leaving for our children to deal with. I had never realized this was the case.

Knowing this has made me even more acutely aware of my purchases: I really don’t need a new lipgloss if it means I’ll be throwing out an old one, which surely is not recyclable. And do I really need another planter for my apartment, or a plastic bird feeder? Is it possible to buy items that are 100% recyclable rather than things that will break easily and won’t be able to be fixed?

As I have lived here a bit longer, and now that I have accumulated most everything I need for my apartment (which, mind you, is filled with stuff — I’m certainly no saint), I have little to no desire to go shopping. I am trying to purchase items that can be reused for other needs (I bought heavy whipping cream yesterday in a charming miniature glass milk bottle that I’ll reuse as a vase).

Spending time in traffic or crowds searching for snazzy items that I simply do not need is not a way to spend my weekends. I’d now rather try to have fun instead of trying to get ahead by spending money. Of course, this doesn’t eliminate the fact that I still can’t recycle my toxic toothpaste-tube (I just can’t yet make the switch to natural toothpaste) and that I buy salad in a plastic box instead of a loose bunch stored in my reusable grocery bags. It’s a slow road to take: the one where you evaluate what your life is made of and decide if you want it to be made of things. It has taken me a long, long time to distance myself from my belongings. Only now am I attempting to see the effect my consumption has on everyone around me, and only now am I attempting to fill my life with things that have no tangible form.

To be honest, it has been entirely more fulfilling than a new tube of lip gloss. The high is more subdued, but also a million times prolonged.

I cannot believe that I have had this blog for over a year and have not yet written about the wonders of Tasti-D-Lite. I love Tasti-D-Lite. Anybody who knows me knows that I love Tasti-D-Lite. That I will detour blocks out of my way to pick it up, and can be sometimes be found with a cone of Tasti-D even in the depths of winter.

For those who don’t know me, or indeed Tasti-D-lite, it is a “unique low-calorie frozen dessert.” Fake ice cream. I’m sure it tastes vile compared to real ice cream, but frankly I’ve been a female in this society (and thus on a low-grade diet) for so long that I cannot remember what real ice cream tastes like. So I think tasti-D is just divine. So, though I cannot do an ode, let me count the ways I do love thee, Tasti-D.

I love the crass, synthetic, pink and blue colors

I love the name, pun, mis-spelling and all. If only it had a heart instead of a dot over the “i”

I love the teen-age girls who work there (except for once when I went into the one in New Haven, and there was a cute Aussie guy working there, who I am sure would never eat the stuff in a thousand years. I overheard him tell the Yale undergrad girls in front of me that he was just there to make some money. I cannot even imagine how much play he must have gotten.)

I love the fake flavors. Who can tell Rocky Road apart from Mudpie? Yet they have hundreds of them, slightly different chemical compositions

I love the fluffy, airy, calorie free-ness

I love the hoards of weight and age conscious New York women who flock to them, and say things like “let me try the flavors” (Tasti insider language for the two rotating flavors of the day, in addition to the permanent staples of chocolate and vanilla), and “I’ll take nine pints of peanut butter to go, please.”

I could develop a big treatise about how Tasti-D-Lite is a completely contingent product – made necessary by the same society that makes it possible. But I won’t, because a respite from thinking and analyzing and calculating is exactly what Tasti-D-Lite is for me, and why I love it most. When I go in there, I get to be an airhead for as long as the cone lasts. I don’t have to worry about why I want it, what it means, what it is going to do to me, what the consequences are. My head is as vapid and vaguely sweet as the airy, puffy, slightly flavored stuff in my cone, and it is delightful.

It seems that the season has *finally* changed in New York. If we didn’t all believe in global warming already, the freakishly indian summer we were “enjoying” was seriously getting a little bit disconcerting (and making Al Gore’s Nobel Prize seem very timely). Plus I absolutely love the autumn, and have been feeling seriously short-changed on the whole crisp air, colorful leaf front. So it is with glee and delight that I took in the fresh, sunny fall weather this weekend.

I imagine that the retail industry also shared similar feelings of glee and delight, if perhaps for more cynical reasons - nothing like a change in seasons to bring shoppers out in droves. Each season has its associations of activities and moods, and each of course requires proper attire and accessories to really make one feel as if she is of the moment, properly autumnal, etc.

I am currently living on the upper west side of Manhattan (the “upper best” we like to call it), dog-sitting for my friend’s lovely German Shepard, Olso, while I get settled and find my own place in New York. Just a couple of blocks from me, there is a store called Loehmann’s, which you may or may not know as part of the TJMaxx, Centry 21, labels-for-less genre. I have to walk past Loehmann’s on my way to Fairway (”A Market Like No Other”… is that good??) to get food, and so this weekend I absent-mindedly wandered in. “Absent-mindedly” is of course nothing but an excuse… “Oh did I just happen to find myself in this store? in the changing room trying on some clothes? and they just happened to fit/ be cute/ a good price/ etc etc… how could I resist??” It takes all the blame away from me, displacing it onto that modern malady of being over-whelmed, unfocused, going with the flow… which inevitable leads to a cash register, somehow.

In this blameless state, I entered Loehmann’s with rather low expectations, envisioning picked over merch from second- or third-rate brands. Of which there was plenty - lots of crap. For this I was somewhat relieved, banking on crap to let me get out of there scott-free. I wasn’t counting on the gems. Those of you who know me know that I have a weakness for Marc Jacobs (despite his recent - or perpetual? - identity crisis), and my first definitely-not-crap find was a darling military-inspired jacket by him. With a new job, a smart-yet cool jacket-like thing in which to make presentations was just what I needed. Check - just like that, sale number one made and mentally rationalized.

Fortunately or not, depending on how you look at it, the not-crap did not end the jacket. Still umm-ing and ahh-ing as to whether I really needed that, but on the on the way to the register, I passed what was easily the best discount selection of coats I have ever seen. Seriously. Missoni, Ralph Lauren, See by Chloe, italian cashmere, and many more. Not cheap, but hundreds of their original prices. I paused and looked around, to see if anybody else had noticed. I felt like what I imagine the gold miners felt when they discovered a vein, in the middle of the wilderness, all alone, but other miners in the vicinity… I felt like I had discovered a secret that others would kill for. Very protective. Almost manic. Must claim my coat before others catch on…

Totally irrational of course. Nothing that is in plain view in Loehmann’s on the upper west side of New York City is a secret. But that is how it felt as I tried on coat after coat. Despite that fact that I have absolutely nowhere to wear such a thing, the pink woven Missoni with Maribou trim was a serious contender. It just felt like too good an opportunity to pass up…

In the end I got a hooded, tweed jacket form See by Chloe. It hits at the hip, with a sweet little pleat in back. I am into Chloe, definitely a brand aimed, yet “aspirational” for me. The jacket is so cute. Not exactly low-priced, but lower than normal. And that is obviously the secret, subliminal, genius marketing-nefariousness of Loehmanns… their name! They have disguised “low” as “loeh,” priming you to think it is going to be a bargain, even if you’re not sure here that thought came from. Very clever…

Well, hood-winked I may have been. But at least it was also hood-jacketed, and now I am ready for fall.

I have not been a very good blogger recently (if ever). Some of the things you are supposed to do as a blogger are: write short but regular posts, link to lots of other people’s blogs, and comment on other people’s blogs so they link back to you… generally be active and out there. I, on the other hand, am a hermit blogger, who occasionally comes out with an overly long post, but never really hangs out enough to become one of the bloggers-about-town. Alas.

In an effort to be more active and social as a blogger, I have asked my friend Carter to join me for the occasional guest-post (as occasional or frequent as she likes really). Carter and I were in grad school together. She is from Virginia, as she will most likely tell you herself, and thus infinitely more social than me, from New England. She is a good shopper too, and what do you know, studied a made-up major like culture-studies in college, so knows all about how to dissect her purchases for their hidden meaning with the best of ‘em.

So, without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I present the first work of the lovely, the scintillating, the beautiful, Miss Carter!!!

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I have recently moved to California. The process of moving to California has been ongoing for over a year. It began last summer when I lived in San Francisco temporarily and was waiting to finish graduate school to move back. In that final year of school, I stopped shopping. At least, I stopped shopping for all the things that I would not dare move across the country: drug store lip glosses, strappy sandals and skirts and summer dresses (of no use in this fog and wind), nail polishes, lotions (I must have a million bottles), shampoos, soaps, wine glasses, more books. In other words, anything heavy, low quality, breakable, or summer-like.

This meant that when I actually arrived in California, I had a lot to purchase. Which has been a fun, tedious process. It’s amazing how much stuff is required to live, especially considering the fact that I am diligently trying to limit the amount of stuff I buy. I am determined to not re-clutter my life considering the fact that I left a lot of it back on the East Coast.

In this, my first message on Kate’s site, I’d like to tell you about one of the most mind-blowing products I’ve purchased in the last couple months. It’s called Bare Escentuals Get Started Kit, and I bought it in the ‘light’ shade family.

Let me preface this Lovefest by saying this starter kit was not my first introduction to mineral make-up. A couple years ago, I purchased mineral blush and mica-infused mineral shadow at Whole Foods in my first attempt to convert my make-up to products with a lower toxicity level than my standard issue. These products were okay, but since I was applying them with my standard brushes, they often went onto my face too heavily. I rarely used them.

Then I got to SF, which has had an intense effect on my skin. Suddenly, my skin became about 10 times more oily and I needed to switch foundations and shampoos. I knew I wanted to buy decent products that weren’t completely carcinogenic, and my newfound job meant that $60 for four powders and three brushes no longer seemed too expensive (compared to my grad school budget, where this purchase would’ve been a week’s worth of food). I decided to take the plunge.

I wandered into the Sephora that is about 10 blocks from my house and picked up the starter kit, feeling slightly like I’d drunk the Kool-Aid and that I was a sucker for betting on this miracle box of goodies. I got home, opened the cardboard box to find one bottle of Skin Revver-Upper, a serum used to prep the skin for powder application, four loose mineral powders, one brush that resembles a blush brush, one stubby Kabuki brush, and one flat-headed, long-bristled brush for concealer application. I had figured that Bare Escentuals would not replace my Burt’s Bees waxy concealer, which I do still like. But I was wrong.

After getting out the powders and brushes and unwrapping their packaging (boo for plastic bags since the entire box was also shrink-wrapped), I opened the DVD with usage instructions. Here’s where the magic begins.

The DVD is amazing. It’s like watching an extended infomercial for Cindy Crawford’s make-up or Pro-Activ solution. It’s chock-full of soft lighting, fake novices, and new converts to Bare Escentuals. It’s like a pep rally for your make-up application, and it’s hosted by the founder of the company, which happens to be based in SF. Though I’m a little unnerved by how different she looks in the video compared to her picture on the box’s exterior, I watch.

I decide to do my make-up while I watch the DVD, and to do it without a mirror because I haven’t bought a handheld mirror yet in SF. Throughout the video, the mantra ’swirl and tap’ must be repeated a million times. And it’s a good thing, because it’s what makes this stuff so potent. So here I am, sitting on a bare wood floor, powders and brushes surrounding my 12″ and me, and I’m swirling and tapping away. I’m convinced that the make-up won’t really work since it’s just powder, not the crème powder I’m used to using. I go through two foundations: light and fairly light, using both the full coverage brush and the baby Kabuki brush. I then apply concealer using the light foundation powder and concealer brush. Then, I use the powder called ‘Warmth,’ which is like a bronzer or a blush, but not really either of those… imagine something that gives you a little life after applying a matte foundation. And finally, I use the all-over ‘Mineral Veil’ to finish my application.

And then I went to the mirror, expecting to see a face looking the same as before I watched the soft-lit DVD, before I saw the blonde and the brunette novices apply their own faces. And I was shocked at my own face. In fact, I’m still shocked each day as I apply this make-up. When the founder-woman of Bare Escentuals says that you won’t see make-up, you’ll just see coverage, she means it. It’s amazing. It also means that you won’t _feel_ make-up, which is really very exciting to me because I hate kissing boys and feeling like I have something on me that might come off on them. And I never realized it, but normal make-up also causes your face to feel heavier than I think this stuff does.

Once in front of the mirror, I do another cover-up application (the first didn’t provide enough coverage), and then I stare at myself, amazed that this powder has not covered my freckles where I don’t want them covered, but has camouflaged my broken capillaries, my uneven skin, the darkness under my eyes. I gather a new glass jar to hold my new brushes, and I put away the powders on their own little shelf in my cabinet.

Kids, I’ve officially drunk the Kool-Aid. I’d encourage you to do the same.

Some little voice inside is telling me that I shouldn’t write about my knickers on a public blog. You know, one that grandmothers and bosses might see. With apologies, however, I am going to go ahead and ignore that voice, and if you are a boss or a potential employeer, or a grandmother, or anybody else who doesn’t want to know about my knickers, please just skip this post. It won’t actually be very titillating anyway.

The reason I am ignoring that sensible voice in my head is because I have recently become OBSESSED by MYLA. And anyway, I would be remiss in the serious research purpose of this blog if I ignored a purchase category as charged with emotion and politics and women’s underwear. I mean, from corsets and crinolines to wonderbras and thongs, ladies’ smalls are a barometer of changing times and the delicate balance of sexual politics.

As I am sure you know, Myla is one of the new generation of fun, sexy, and beautifully made –if un peu cher – lingerie brands. In my awareness, the trend started with Agent Provocateur, but I could be wrong about that. These lines are different from the La Perlas of the world because they are younger and more attitudinal. Whereas La Perla is for a Stepford Wife sort of perfectly preserved Brentwood housewife, Agent P et al is lingerie for a generation of woman who grew up taking feminism’s victories for granted. Its for the PRs and stylists of this world, independent, self-possessed and self-promotional, for whom sexuality is one more tool she can use to claw her way to the top of the A-list. Not that that’s me of course (just want to make that clear for all the bosses and grandmothers who are still reading!), but that is the brand fantasy they are projecting.

Anyway, I much prefer Myla to Agent P., which is in fact only saved from being complete ho-wear by the multi-hundred dollar price tag. Myla is somehow more wholesome, the girl next door, but with a sly glint in her eye - Kirsten Dunst as Lux Lisbon, for example. Much more subversive.

Sadly, much of these theories about the relative merits of various high-end knicker brands was purely academic, as I am not usually in the market for undergarments that cost a sizeable portion of the montly rent. What brought on this Myla love was an amazing, gift-from-above *sale*! And also a break-up. But God bless clearance sales. Right around the corner from where I was living in Notting Hill, the lovely people at the Myla store decided to open up their backroom, stock it with racks and racks of their delectable little nothings, and drop drop drop their prices lower than a J. Lo neckline. Bras that used to be £120 down to £20 - that sort of J. low. My pulse was racing madly from the bargain, never mind the sexy lingerie. But the polka dots and lace and cute details and nice fabrics were all good too.

Ok, ok, back to the break-up bit, because of course this blog is about the psychology behind purchases. Arvind and I broke up. I wasn’t going to mention it here, but since he has featured in my stories, we thought I should. We are still good friends and all is well. But I have moved back to New York… and bought lingerie! I mean, that’s what you do when you become single - you move continents and buy underwear, right?

Lately, I have been really into “feeling my feelings.” Those of you who know me, know that I have a bit of a soft-spot for things leaning toward the “self-help” genre of things (only good quality self-help, to be fair). Feeling my feelings came from reading “Families and How to Survive Them” by Robin Skynner, a classic about family therapy, as well as “The Power of Now” by Eckhart Tolle, a rather extreme neo-spiritual book about living in the here and now. Skynnard explains that as children we learn from our families that certain types of feelings are unacceptable, such as jealously, or failure, or anger, and then whenever we start to feel those things we have to repress them, leading to various sorts of problems. Tolle simply thinks that the doorway to all the aliveness and excitement that we are seeking by striving toward the future, actually lies in the here and now.

So anyway, psycho-woo-woo-ness aside, this feeling my feelings has been really working for me, and I have gotten so sanctimonious about it that I have even recently lectured two of my good friends to give up their avoidance and deflection techniques and just sit with their uncomfortable feelings. Under this new way of thinking, shopping would constitute just such an avoidance technique.

For example, imagine that it is a somewhat drippy, gray Sunday in London. I’ve had a nice lie-in, and don’t have much planned for the day. I spend some time surfing the net, have a nice breakfast, and then start to feel a bit glum, the Sunday blues kicking in. The thing to do would be to sit there with those blues, make a bit more room for melancholy in my life, not panic and resist it when it starts to show up, but instead get a little curious about it and just think, well, maybe this time is about being a little glum, and that’s ok.

The thing that I would *not* want to do, if I were trying to feel my feelings, would be to go shopping, because that buzz of a new purchase, the little fantasy (”oh the places I will go in these shoes?” “oh how chic will I look in this top!”) that goes along with it, would be covering up, distracting me from my underlying feeling. Then, as soon as the “purchase high” wears off, I’d be left right back where I started, except a bit poorer and perhaps with a new pair of shoes, rather than having gone through the feeling and being left with the deeper pleasure of having expanded my emotional range and comfort zone.

Or, in this case, I’d be left with some new skin care products, such as, hypothetically speaking, say a rosewater facial toner… errr, to be specific. I really didn’t mean to. I really was still feeling sanctimonious and ocnvinced about my new method. I just decided I would pop out and get a coffee, because, after all, one can certainly sip coffee and feel melancholy at the same time. But once on Portobello Road, the consumerist wonderland just sort of takes over. And I did need some new toner, because London tap water is so hard on the skin. So I stopped by Neal’s Yard - what could be the harm in that? Its all natural, apothecary-esque, full of herbs and essential oils. Neal’s Yard has been into that natural shit since long before Gwynnie or Madonna made it boho hip.

Anyway, I emerged the proud new owner of a rosewater facial toner, and with a slight buzz. Melancholy completely forgotten. So, I fell off the wagon… Does that mean I have to call my friends and come clean?

The summer music festival is a big deal in the UK. People spend weeks talking about Glastonbury, and if you’re going to Glastonbury, and how many people are going to Glastonbury, and what the locals think of Gastonbury, and how muddy it got at Glastonbury, and what Kate Moss wore at Glastonbury, etc etc. It is almost a bigger news event than Big Brother. Besides Glastonbury, there is a whole roster of other festivals, none nearly as iconic, but each tailored to a carefully targeted market demographic. In total they are a big part of the popular marking of the British summertime.

With all the hoop-la, I’ve always been interested in going to one. But I forgot to pack my tent and sleeping bag when I came over on the plane, amongst other obstacles, and so in four summers of living in London had never actually been to a festival. Until last weekend, that is. I am happy to report that I am no longer a festival virgin. When my friend Juliet not only invited me to go along with her group, but also offered a tent and a ride, it seemed that God had finally decided it was time for me to experience The Festival. The one He chose for me is the Big Chill, targeted, as Jules explained, for aging clubbers, who maybe used to rave in fields, but now are starting to have kids. It takes place in the lovely (formerly lovely, that is, before the invasion of 20,000 “chillers”) deer park of Eastnor Castle in the Malvern Hills.

For the Americans in the crowd, British festivals are a slightly different genre than ours. They are more intense than your Lollapaloozas, because they run over several days and involve camping out, but not quite as hardcore as something like Burning Man, because, well, its not the desert and you can buy things you forgot to bring. Its like a massive sleep-over at a country fair. No livestock or carnival games (not a Mole to Whack, sadly), and more music, but the same sort of feeling of a big field that might have recently hosted corn or grass or some other vegetable thing, now mainly a mud-flat for throngs of people milling between stalls, soundstages, generators, and port-a-potties. The field-cum-mud-flat quickly begins to sprout ends of sausages, cigarette butts, and other assorted litter to replace its former crop. The people eat and drink and mill and sit, then do it all again, and occasionally notice that they’re in what would be an idyllic field if it weren’t for all the other people. In my book “camping” involves fewer people and more nature, so this is something different. Maybe “festing”… if not “festering.”

At first I did not understand the point of the extra days. I mean, being at a fair for one afternoon is usually enough - you see all the sights, sample enough food to remind you that things prepared in trailers usually do not taste good, and rub shoulders with enough sweaty people wearing cowboy hats to sort of suffice until the next fair comes along. If you are lucky enough to need the port-a-loo during the afternoon, then you’ve really feel you’ve done country living, and enough is enough. We arrived Friday evening, had a great night of dancing to Kruder & Dorfmeister under the stars (only one of them was there - I don’t know if it was Kruder or Dorfmeister…), and by the middle of Saturday afternoon, this was how I was feeling - I’d had enough. Was no longer enchanted with the British middle classes and this ritualized hedonistic escape to the country. £125 (that’s over $250 earth dollars these days) to maybe imagine that you’re Janis Joplin at Woodstock or something, when really you’re Harriet who works as a PA in Slough. See, I was getting catty.

But you see, my problem on that first day was that I had gotten separated from my group. I had slept in, then wandered out and never found them. So I was looking at it all with the critical eye of a vaguely hung-over, dehydrated outsider. The beauty of the festival, I discovered, is the group dynamic, and that takes a couple of days to gel. Here I have to give a shout out to the best camp-mates ever, who totally welcomed me and feel like my-new-best-friends: Juliet, Dennis, Ceri, Sam, Giles, Manoj, Louise, Will, and our team leader, 18 month old Isabel (Dennis and Jules’ daughter, and the reason we camped in the Family area, where at least nobody pees on your tent). As soon as I rejoined them on Saturday evening, the festival just got better and better. By Saturday night, we and all the Big Chillers seemed to actually have chilled out, and were ready for a heaving outdoor party. I love a good dance under almost circumstance, so what can be better than brilliant music on a warm night in the open air with a delirious mood all around. The Idjut Boys started it off right at the SoCo Fat Tuesday stage then Hexstatic took over on the main stage. As the sky eased from indigo to black, people released those floating candle lanterns in the sky and all was magic. Instead of being nasty about PAs from Slough, I was starting to actually fancy myself more of a Janis Joplin. Ok, maybe not Janis, but like somebody all about being and feeling, rather than judging. That’s magic too.

By Sunday, the most beautiful day of the British summer so far, the festival had ripened and mellowed to a warm and fuzzy going and flowing. We ate, drank, chatted, joked, danced, sat around, wandered, split up, and rejoined. The arch of the weekend was like a good dj set: bringing a crowd up and getting it together may take some work, but then you get there, go a little crazy, and then come down long and luscious. At the tail end of the experience you feel open, emotional, spent and rejuvenated all at the same time.

In the hazy afterglow, I am festival convert. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, buy my ticket now for next year. But only if Isabel is team leader, and if I can chill with the same campers.