(retail) therapy

i've never been a great shopper. that is, i've never been a great shopper until recently. lately i find myself eyeing all the clothes, bags, and shoes and filling my arms with things in my size, eager to try them on. yesterday at filene's basement t. saw the pile of things i'd picked up to try on--everything from a sport coat i had no intentions of buying ("i'm just trying it on for fun." fun? since when is putting on a sport coat fun?) to an awful lavender polo i had no intentions of buying--and his eyes widened in horror. i then made him stand outside the dressing room, commenting on the outfits i'd created. i ended up buying one shirt.

wiltzius (a.k.a. chiquita yellow gold when she deigns to comment on this 'blog) is the master shopper, the shaman from whom i learned the craft. last month we went together to some special spring event at filene's basement. they promised champagne and fruit, but provided warm ginger ale. we still carried it around the store, leaving our trash among the racks of discount, mostly awful clothing. this same trip yielded the coach bag that's become known as "my purse."

even better than andrea's guerilla-warfare-like behavior inside filene's basement is her insistence on using a stroller--provided by the store for mothers' convenience--as a shopping cart. picture it: wiltzius, nothing but a tan flash of yellow gold and attitude, throwing discount couture into a stroller. it's the stuff dreams are made of.