What’s Your Point?

I mean PRICE POINT.

Do you know the price you’re willing — or NOT willing — to pay for a specific item?

And what factors affect your decision?

That tipping point between purchase or walking away.

If you paid proper attention, you remember that my tugboat man owed me a pair of Louboutin shoes because of his (ahem) transgressions. CLICK TO READ

I. Am. Officially. Crazy.

I wouldn’t allow hub to buy a ten dollar mop from Target ‘cos I knew i could get one at the dollar store for a dollar (which I did), but I can spend a mortgage payment on a pair of shoes.

Who wouldn’t want to save NINE DOLLARS, right?

My tugboat man flew home last week for a brief respite and our reunion was a whirlwind of shopping for new deck furniture, repairing a broken washing machine — it needed a new tub seal ‘cos it was leaking —  hub’s a GENIUS at fixing things, especially since there is NO surf ‘cos the Pacific Ocean is a LAKE so he had a lot of free (not surfing) time. This turned out to be an all day project because he decided to take it completely apart and do all sorts of maintenance while he replaced the broken part.

We put our old deck furniture out on the street and it was picked up within minutes, which was awesome as it saved us a trip to the dump and then the universe rewarded us by our discovery of an amazing outdoor coffee table also on the street just a couple blocks from our house that should complement our new furniture perfectly, and only needs to be refinished — another one of hub’s many talents.

See, I’m a girl who can appreciate the finer things in life as well as bringing home the detritus ( I mean the treasures) others discard.

I wasn’t at all naggy or anything — hardly even reminded hub of his duty to fulfill his penance with a pair of Loubies ‘cos we were uber busy — and then one day — UNPROMPTED — he asked if I had changed my mind about that certain trip to South Coast Plaza.

Quicker than you can say, “are you f***ing kidding me” I hopped in the shower and threw on a casual but California cool ensemble. Perfect for a day of trying on shoes.

I am horrified by what I’m going to say next, but I’m all about keeping it realz.

Louboutin

See the little piggies? Ick. From Pinterest

I don’t like the way Louboutins look on my feet.

This style is NOT foot or leg-flattering. That whole TOE CLEAVAGE thing that Christian Louboutin’s all about is NOT sexy on me. To me, it looks like a whole bunch of butt cracks and then I start thinking about plumbers and no. can. do.

Not even for those red soles that I had obsessed about for a while. Not even.

Plus, not comfortable at all. Not at all. I have a really high arch, so a tall heel is no problem — but after trying on almost every shoe in the store, I had to accept defeat.

My tugboat man was SO patient, he actually ENTERED the shop and sat with me while I modeled shoe after shoe. He didn’t like the way they looked either, but it was like pulling teeth to get him to offer an honest opinion — we’ve been married way too long — but I needed him to be brutally honest  At $650 and up — there’s a lot of considerations that don’t arise with a purchase from Ross Dress For Less.

Which brings us to PRICE POINT.

We tried all the shoe stores — Jimmy Choo, Dior, Prada, YSL, Roger Vivier, Stuart Weitzman, Bloomies…and then there was CHANEL.

I mean, we were right there;  it would have been so wrong NOT to see what they had, ya know?

It was all his fault. I tried on this shoe and he FORCED ME TO BUY IT.chanelshoes1

 

I didn’t want to. I said, “Let’s go and eat some lunch and think about it.”

So we did. We shared a salad and a veggie panini at the Corner Bakery Cafe and strolled back over to Chanel where I tried the shoes on again and walked all over the store. Yes, they were comfortable, more so than the Loubies. The heel wasn’t too low nor was it too high. There was none of the dreaded toe cleavage.

BUT they sorta kinda gapped open just a bit at the arch, ‘cos of the whole ballet dancer high arch thing. They didn’t hug my foot. They weren’t perfect, but pretty darn close.

My tugboat man waxed poetic. They were elegant, sexy, classy, timeless (his words.)

In all honesty, I bet he was really thinking to himself, “she’ll never bug me about buying another pair of shoes ever again so in the long run, this’ll save money and I’ll come out of it smelling sweet and looking like a hero and I’ll never have to watch her try on a thousand damn pairs of shoes ever again.”

OK. Here goes. The price point…They were $850. EIGHT HUNDRED FIFTY DOLLARS, not including tax.

Way more than I’ve ever paid for a pair of shoes. The most I’ve ever spent was about $200 or so for boots.

Practically $500 PER SHOE.

This was well above my internal price point, but my persuasive husband exerted influence and FORCED me get them.

“You deserve to have them.”

“You should have had shoes like this twenty years ago.”

WHO IS THIS GUY? (And no, he doesn’t have any brothers, he can’t be cloned, and his dad is/was a selfish jerk, so I don’t know how he became so awesome or I got so lucky.)

So I caved. Against my better judgement, I slapped down the plastique and made the purchase.

But something was bothering me.

I was afraid to wear them. What if they got scuffed up? What if something happened to the little bands of gold and the CC charm on the heel?

And that gap issue bugged me; shouldn’t they fit like a Cinderella shoe? Shouldn’t they be BEYOND perfect? I could have a custom shoe handmade by a cobbler for less than $850.00.

All my “what if” worry issues were stimulated. 

The shoes sat on display on our dining room table for a few days.

I tried them on, walked around the house, but it was like an itch, a burr under my saddle, a nagging sense of something NOT QUITE RIGHT.

I even woke up from a deep sleep worrying about those damn shoes.

I was afraid to wear them. They were beyond my price point.

There’s a fourteen day return policy.

My tugboat man left to go back out to sea on Veteran’s Day.

What a dilemma!

On one hand, I loved the shoes A LOT, because Chanel, HELLO!

On the other hand, they weren’t 100000% perfectly fitting my foot. And on a third hand, they were ridiculously expensive, and I’m not sure I would enjoy wearing them because I’d be too frightened to walk outside.

I am fully aware that these kinds of shoes are not for hiking in the Anza-Borrego Desert and are much more akin to a hothouse flower that should only walk on a red carpet at a Hollywood premiere or the lush marble floor of a cocktail party in Rancho Santa Fe — but I’d be waiting YEARS for those events to occur.

And it’s also not that I don’t LOVE to be pampered with pricey prezzies (Chanel handbag #1 and #2, diamond anniversary band, opal ring…) but somehow these shoes triggered a deep emotional hesitation.

Know where I’m going?

I mean, literally, do you know where I’m going?

Yup, as soon as my tugboat man was safely on a vessel in the middle of a vast ocean, I packed up my beautiful but not perfect shoes and drove an hour back to South Coast Plaza and returned them.

*Sigh*

More than anything, I didn’t want to hurt my hub’s feelings — he really and truly derives so much joy from buying me nice things — but I just couldn’t keep them.

And I didn’t want to let him know in advance that I was driving to the OC ‘cos it’s a hundred-mile-plus trip roundtrip and he’d worry about me. The last thing I want to do is to cause him to pay less attention to his dangerous work, pulling and pushing barges and winches and towing lines and all that.

AND since we have a policy of full disclosure, I would never NOT tell him, because that’s not how we roll,

So.

Last night when he called to say goodnight like he always tries to do, I gently broke the news to him that I had returned his lovely gift, but more so than the actual purchase, I loved him for wanting to do whatever it takes to please me and make me happy, and THAT was priceless.

He was disappointed, but understood that that the whole “gap” and “fear” thing took the joy out of it for me.

Now here’s some questions I’ve been thinking about:

Do you think it was all a ploy by my tugboat man? Reverse psychology? He knows how cheap I really am, and perhaps he did this so he’d come out the generous knight in shining armor and I’m the undeserving scullery maid?

It’s possible…it is. He’s a clever one, that tugboat man of mine.

However, all is not lost. I have a $20 discount coupon for DSW. Hmm, maybe I’ll see what they have to offer.

Do YOU have a price point?  Especially for items that are not necessary like food and shelter. What factors enter into your purchase decisions? Is there a point at which you say no? What’s the most you’ve ever spent on shoes?

Here’s a photo gallery of South Coast Plaza all dressed up for the holidays and one last look of me holding a Chanel bag…

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My Ten Dollar Wedding Dress

For sure I’m the same girl who loves her Chanel and those sexy sexy toe cleavage Louboutins.

But I’m also all about a bargain – a good deal – a TREASURE.

When tugboat man proposed and we set a date, (yes, Dr. Laura, I had a ring and a date) — it was time to commence the checklist and countdown to becoming Mrs. Tugboat Captain.

I didn’t expect to find the perfect wedding gown at the DAV (that’s short for Disabled American Veterans) but I was getting desperate.

I had visited all of the local wedding shops, tried on a lot of gowns that didn’t feel right for me – not for a second marriage — and they didn’t speak to me design-wise.

Remember, it was 1994. Not as bad as the eighties, but still…light years before “Say Yes To The Dress”.

It was January; the wedding was the following month and I didn’t have anything to wear.

Not quite time to panic, well, yes, time to panic.

I would have been a Bridezilla if I wasn’t the one who was doing all the planning.

As a last resort, I was going to sew my own dress – but there wasn’t a whole lotta time.

One day I was aimlessly driving around and thought what the heck, I’ll try the thrift stores, whaddid I have to lose?

I stopped at the DAV on Coast Highway in Oceanside. It never smelled fresh, and that was a turnoff for sure, but I’d had luck there previously when I was looking for a vintage Hawaiian shirt.

Dejectedly, I dragged my feet over to the “fancy” dress aisle. It was an exercise in futility, but I wanted to be thorough.

I certainly didn’t expect to find the perfect wedding gown here — although there were lots of graduation-type dresses that looked like they had seen their one and done status and that’s how they ended up in the rack of last resorts.

And there it was.

Smashed and smooshed between two hideous body-deforming shiny blue taffeta trashed bridesmaids gowns or quinceanera dresses…

…my little jewel of a a wedding dress sang her sweet song of lace and froth.

Not too much; just right. Oh so right.

Lace tiers and sheer long sleeves and a nipped-in waist. SO ME.

A slightly Victorian feel or something that wouldn’t be out of place at Highcleer Castle. (Downton Abbey reference)

ME WANT.

I didn’t even bother to try it on in the (ick) sketchy“dressing room” — really just three dirty blankets hung from a partition.

Cost? It was $10. TEN DOLLARS. I’m not sure of the designer’s name — whatever label had been attached was removed, but someone cared. There was LOVE in the stitches.

One thousand pennies.

What if it didn’t fit? 

As soon as I got home, I tried it on and it was a perfect fit. Perfect. Like bespoke. Like so perfect I got teary.

SO meant to be, just like my tugboat man.

Although it was as immaculate as if it had never been worn, I always feel the need to add some embellishment. I went to the fabric store and bought twenty yards of chiffon for a belt/sash and then I decided I wanted to give the gown a slight vintage feel. I filled my tub with ten bags of Earl Grey tea; dipped and soaked the gown just until it was tinted a faintly champagne-ish color.

Absolutely fabulous.

May I present Mrs. Tugboat Captain in these old and scanned pics.

weddingdress1 Yes, I have to cut tugboat man out of every one, but I swear he was there.weddingdress2 Haha, half a head, but I’m not dancing alone! See the gorgeous sash.weddingdress3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Husband Has a Mistress and That’s All Right With Me

I did a bad thing, tricking you that way.*

SORRY!

(But it made you click on it, haha)

My tugboat man doesn’t have a mistress.

Or…does he?

He might as well have one.

Listen to the facts:

1. He spends a lot of money on her.

2. Sometimes when the tides are right, he spends more time with her than at home.

3. He found her on Craigslist.

Here’s my hub’s newest love, a Kies custom surfboard.

Apparently John Kies is one of the best surfboard shapers out there; at least that’s what I’ve been hearing for — well, it seems like for the last twenty-four hours. Nonstop. “Look at her shape!” “Isn’t she beautiful?” “I can’t wait to get her out in the water.”

Kies custom boardSo. Here she is.

Gaze your eyeballs on her beautiful and young body, so fresh and clean, no wrinkles or stretch marks or cellulite.

I actually drove with him halfway across San Diego County so that he could check her out — get a taste of her — stroke her and examine her from all sides –all the  while I sat in the car and read a book until it got too dark to read.

And now he’s applying a coat of fresh StickyBumps warm water wax so that she’s primed and ready for their first ride. Together.

But don’t worry about me.

I’ll do all right ‘cos I’m a SURVIVOR.

I have my eye on a sweet little pearl Chanel necklace.

All’s fair, right?


 

*P.S. Apologies to anyone who may have thought I was going to reveal marital dirt…I’ll admit to gentle teasing and snarky humor at times, but I almost never share personal dirty laundry in a public forum. Not my style. Not my thing.

 

 

Just a Cup of Coffee – The Love Story of Princess Rosebud and her Captain – Part One

Today:  Sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s not. That’s the life of a tugboat captain’s wife. Right now he’s not..

weddingpicture

Yup, the secret’s out. I’m married to Johnny Depp

The Wedding: February 21, 1994

Our song, our first dance as husband and wife. “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole
http://youtu.be/wkVuQGgx7d8

The Beginning…This is the love story of me, Princess Rosebud, and the tugboat captain.

We met when I was a year into my deal with myself to stay celibate until I met someone, uh, worthy…

Easter Sunday, April 4, 2010… At 3:40 this afternoon, I was in the threshold of our garage door that leads into the living room where I had dragged in a ladder to help with my latest project–painting the living room walls a divine shade of seafoam green–to stay busy when the captain’s out to sea. I mean, I can’t shop ALL the time. A girl has to take a break now and again, right? I set the ladder down and went back to close the garage door. At that precise moment, the glass vases on the shelves surrounding our fireplace began to vibrate and wobble. Here in SoCal, I’ve endured a handful of quakes, but never such intense shaking.

Through the open garage door I saw the bicycles that hang from the ceiling sway back and forth. As I attempted to process THAT information, the crystal lustres on my grandmother’s antique porcelain candelabras clashed and clinked. Terracotta tile flooring in the foyer seemed to roll back and forth as if I was on a sailboat in San Diego Bay, and I had a difficult time standing.

Feeling dizzy and unbalanced, I grasped the doorway for support.  My poor kitty gave me a dirty look like I had interrupted her nap on purpose. So much for the concept that animals can sense an earthquake–not this spoiled little brat.

I ran up our oak-planked steps into the family room and through the patio doors onto the deck and shouted out to the neighbors.

“Look at your pool!”

“I know, this is crazy! Are you OK? Any damage?”

“I don’t think so. A couple seashells fell off the shelf in the family room, but I was so freaked, I didn’t want to stay inside, so I ran out back. I don’t know if we should stay in the house or what we should do!”

“Us either! Let’s see what’s on the news.”

This quake was so violent that it caused the water in their pool to slosh over the sides like a mini-tsunami. We each went back in our respective homes and turned on CNN. We discovered that there had been a 7.2 earthquake in Mexico. The first reports that came in revealed a lot of damage near the epicenter in Mexicali, but no major problems in San Diego; only broken glass and falling cans at grocery stores, which seemed pretty miraculous considering the earthquake’s size.

Still spooked by the shaking and some pretty strong aftershocks, I surveyed the house, removing anything unsecured and potentially dangerous.

This is as good a time as any to confess something.

I’m a shell-aholic.

seashell mirrorI’ve got shelves and shelves of seashells in every room–including the bathroom. Everyone collects seashells, right? One here, one there, as a memory of a great beach or a fun vacation, right? Well…I’m a seashell hoarder. I want ALL seashells–there are never enough seashells to collect or buy. I make things out of some of them–picture frames, mirrors, boxes–they line the walls in our two bathrooms and even our front door, but mostly they just hang out–in bowls, on shelves, anywhere and everywhere. There is no empty space in our house, and if there is, it’s quickly filled with a shell–or a rock.

After a couple decades, we have come to an understanding, the captain and I. He thinks I’m crazy and obsessed with shells and rocks and driftwood, and I don’t destroy his surfboards if he doesn’t give me a hard time about it.

I anxiously emailed the captain who’s half a world away in the middle of an ocean. I figured that if anything would cause him to cut his four month assignment short, this might be it. The way that emailing works in deep ocean situations is through a pretty inefficient satellite; sometimes it takes hours to complete the process. If there’s a real emergency, I have a phone number to call, but this didn’t really fit the definition. I wasn’t hurt and the house wasn’t damaged or anything. When he finally read the email and wrote back, he told me to “standby” at the house phone because he would try to make a call from the boat’s sat phone. When he called, I used all my powers of persuasion to convince him to come home, but to no avail. He simply wasn’t going to call the United States Coast Guard to fly a rescue mission a thousand miles from land to bring  him home because the kitty and I were scared.

Well, I know where I stand in his list of priorities. Hmmm, I wonder if this is when I hatched my plot to get that Chanel. Hmmm, I wonder.

After that stressful event, and many aftershocks later, some pampering was definitely well deserved. That evening, I drew a bath in the upstairs bathroom we call the spa because it’s decorated in earthy tones with seashells and beach glass surrounding the mirrors and along the walls.

(I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t care.)

I lit a fragrant and calming lavender candle, eased my body into the almost too-hot-to-stand-it water, and trickled in ginger and lemongrass aromatherapy oils. Sipping from a glass of merlot, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and my thoughts wandered.

Experiencing an earthquake; the dizziness, the weightless feeling in a tub of warm water; it all reminded me of falling in love. It all felt the same… and it all started with a fifty cent cup of coffee.

Newly divorced in 1990, I speed dated a few guys, including one totally boring and slightly scary man who immediately wanted me to meet his parents after the first (and last) date, along with a couple of total idiots whose combined IQs prolly didn’t equal my Border Collie‘s. Those unsavory experiences became flashing red lights–STOP! NO! THINK!–impossible to ignore–that I seriously needed to take some time off the dating circuit.

It was the perfect time for a list.

I’m an inveterate list maker; I prioritize my errands and even list groceries in the order of where they’re located in the store– like my own custom board game–where I start at the entrance and finish at the cash register.

I wrote this particular list with the hope that if I documented the qualities desired in a significant other, the universe would deliver the right one when all the planets were aligned. Or so I dreamed.

At midnight on August 7th, 1990, with a bottle of wine to seal the deal, I made a promise to myself–I would not date (or do anything else) for a very long time, and the next one would be “the one”.

The List
1. Must call when he says he will. This is non-negotiable.
2. Must show up on time for dates.
3. Must love pets. Also non-negotiable.
4. No cigarettes. No smoking, and of course, no drugs.
5. Likes to exercise, work out, eat healthy, etc.
6. Must have gainful employment.
7. Must be nice and polite and honest and trustworthy.
8. Fidelity is of paramount importance.
9. When the time is right and he meets my son, my son has to like him. Also non-negotiable.

Fast forward to a year later, the following September 1991.

Tomorrow:
Part Two…Just a cup of coffee, the love story of Princess Rosebud and the tugboat captain

Shopping Tips From Princess Rosebud. More Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife.

Shopaholic Tip #1 Save your receipts.

Shopaholic Tip #2 Make sure you are well versed in the return policies of each and every store in which you shop.

Here’s why: The other side of being a shopaholic is buyer’s remorse.  Sometimes it happens as soon as you arrive home and unpack all of your treasures — there’s a little seed of doubt growing roots in the other side of your brain no longer high with shopping endorphins — maybe you’re just not as enthralled about the colors or the cut or the style  — maybe the way the color looked under harsh florescent lighting is different that you imagined it would be; say for example, the cornflower blue sweater isn’t exactly the shade of cornflower blue you thought would be such an amazing pop of color with a specific blouse or maybe the shoes that you tried on for a moment in the store aren’t comfortable and would NEVER be worn.

Or if you’re like me and really hate the confines of a dressing room, you chose a bunch a couple outfits that you thought would fit ‘cos it’s your size and all that, but when you actually tried them on in the relaxed and serene (and clean) confines of your bedroom, you discover that the cut of the jeans is unflattering or has an unnaturally low rise. Come on people, when will fashion designers STOP manufacturing women’s jeans based on the body of a  prepubescent boy and remember that most women possess waistlines as well as child-bearing hips and we’d like our trousers to fall somewhere close and not be so obscenely low as to reveal our Caesarean scars? Hmm? It’s not that I don’t have some great Joe’s jeans and skinny jeans from Anthropolgie that fit perfectly right, but I’m talking generalities here.

Anyhoo, this is a running topic of contentious conversation with me and my tugboat man.

As soon as I tell him I went shopping, he asks me how soon it will be until I take half or all of my purchases  back. And then he laughs. Ha ha. NOT. It’s his little (tired) joke to bet me which items will not make the cut, so to speak.

Poor tugboat man. He thought that same psychology would work with any of my Chanel purchases, but sadly for him, this Princess is way more clever.

Have you EVER heard of anyone returning an iconic 2.55 Chanel quilted handbag with the chain strap because it didn’t fit? HAH! He’s not as smart as he thinks he is. I threw him a shady eye for even suggesting that it might go back. That’s crazy talk, Captain. He really doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Really.

So, of those four pairs of shoes I purchased last week, I’ve kept two of them. The Asics went back. Why? Because upon detailed inspection at home, I discovered that they were NOT the same style as the ones I had originally purchased for $120.00 and they were not as comfortable. And I take my work out/walking shoes VERY seriously because I live in them. A heel or a wedge doesn’t need the same criteria because they’re worn for shorter periods of time and let’s face it, you don’t even think about hiking in a pair of Louboutin heels, right?

That’s why it’s UBER important to save your receipt and all the tags and make sure you know there’s a decent return policy — not as I’ve found with some shops in tiny print “exhange or store credit only”.  No SIR. I want my $$$$ back.  I do NOT want my money held hostage and  forced  to choose something else. That store goes on my list of places to NEVER again  frequent. It’s not that I don’t understand the nuance of a small business — I’ve owned a couple of them myself — but it’s a negative no matter what the reason, that’s all I’m saying.

I’m still shaking my head…return a friggin’ Chanel??? Does my tugboat man have ANY idea who he’s married to? I mean seriously, where has he been for the past twenty years? I suppose it was wishful thinking on his part, but COME ON.

I can’t even form the thought, “I’d like to return my beautiful Chanel handbag that I’ve lusted for and dreamed about my entire life.”

That’s a whole lotta crazy talk.

Hee hee. :) Have a lovely Sunday and remember to save your receipts!

Is There Anything Better Than Shopping?

That is NOT a rhetorical question. Or is it?

Duh, whatever, the answer is a resounding “NO!” unless it’s being the recipient of a gift…or multiple gifts sent by an absentee husband.

I realize that most of the time I’m talking to YOU as if you know all about ME, and for those that aren’t familiar with the backstory, here’s a brief overview…I’m really and truly the wife of a tugboat captain, a professional mariner, a proud member of the Merchant Marine.

He goes out to sea and I stay home. And shop. And clean. And glue seashells. And shop. And go to the gym. And did I already say shop?

I am an unashamed shopaholic.

And while there’s really nothing better than a daylong shopping spree, finding a box of treasures delivered by my friendly postman is equally exciting.

While I’ve been caring for my son and helping his recovery from emergency life-saving surgery and then discovering that the sparkles in my left eye were due to a retinal tear, not diamonds or rhinestones even (so unfair) —  my tugboat captain husband had to leave and go out to sea.

Yup, he left me and to add insult to injury, he departed ON MY BIRTHDAY.  At least he had the foresight to take me shopping at Bloomingdales before he left so that I could pick out my special birthday gift, a pair of Chanel sunglasses that I LOVE LOVE LOVE.

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Because he was unable to be here for the laser surgery to repair my torn retina (fingers crossed that it was a success) as he’s in the middle of one of our oceans (can’t say where exactly), but he had a couple of hours in a foreign port (can’t say which one) and what did he do with his free time? He bought his Princess Rosebud a whole bunch of presents ‘cos he knows how to bring a smile to my face and a sparkle (not that kind) to my eye!

You can kinda tell that he’s somewhere beachy, somewhere maybe hot and possibly Pirates of the Caribbean-y?

Pretty silvery wrapping paper, but it just made it that much harder to get to the treasures. I ripped ‘em apart like a wild animal…giftbagmess

First things first. Hard-working hub combed the beach “somewhere” for these seashells. A couple of them broke, but I appreciate the effort. Broken shells are better than no shells at all. jshells

Jewelry!!! You can never have too much, right? One butterfly bracelet in happy oh-so-bright colors. This will look gorg with a maxi dress and a sexy suntan, don’t you agree?

btrflybrace

The more the merrier is the way my hub thinks. Check out this dragonfly  bracelet. Think white skinny jeans, a skimpy top, and cork wedges. Oh, and a fruity cocktail. Maybe two…dragonflybracelet

 

braceletsideContinuing with THAT logic, if one pair of earrings is good, four is much better, right? Do you have the feeling that they were possibly on sale? Hmmm, no worries, I love them all!

They are all mother-of-pearl and various shells. ADORABLE!
earrings1 earrings2 earrings3 earrings4

Now it’s time to resume being Cinderella and scrub the floors…my tugboat man is on the final leg of his assignment and should be home at Casa de Enchanted Seashells before the 15th. Yay!

 

 

In Which Princess Rosebud Gets Her Groove Back.

As in shopaholic heaven.

As in a daylong shopping frenzy.

On a roll, guys. On a friggin’ roll.

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, the birdies are singing.

Picture me sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by bags and boxes and fresh crackly tissue paper. It’s Christmas in May!

I hope you are as snappy happy as I am that I haven’t lost my touch.

It’s been so long since I spent a solid day doing nothing but shopping — and I’m proud to say that I was firing on all cylinders, whatever THAT means.

I whipped out the plastique so fast there were tendrils of smoke swirling from its little slot in my (Chanel) wallet.

Must haves, every single one.

The only dark spot in an otherwise stellar day was a grave situation with the rack of undergarments at Kohl’s.

Simply put…a 32A bra should not be situated anywhere near a 42G bra on any rack at any store. And stop laughing at me. It was traumatic.

This is merely an observation from someone less — uh — ahem– less endowed.

Here’s the story: I was searching through the racks of sale bras at Kohl’s  –  and this is just a random thought…but could someone PLEASE organize them so that the 32A bras are not ALL lovingly nestled inside the 42G brassieres? There’s a whole world of sizes in between those two ends of the pectoral scale. Geez, it’s embarrassing enough to seek out the teeny tiny size I wear, but to be overshadowed by a brassiere that will eventually embrace two proudly gigantic mammary glands is almost more than I can bear…Those ginormous over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders were taunting me, I swear it. Taunting me!!! [sobbing now]

Ahh, but even THAT couldn’t dampen my spirits!

Today was a great day, my friends, a great day!

It all started with the seashells. Aren’t these enchanted?

newbottles

Michael’s had a sale. These guys were 50% off! Yippee!
Seashells are the best, right?shellbottleThat’s when I strolled over to Kohl’s in search of a new spoon rest; I didn’t find that, but look what was on sale! (Oh, and I did finally locate a couple of miniature brassieres, thank you very much.)

My super favorite brand of work out shoes —  Asics — and half the price that I paid a few months ago at Footlocker, so of course I needed twice the shoes — four shoes for the price of two!  Such a deal!

asics

Since I was totes feeling it, I stopped at the Carlsbad Premium Outlets and Cole Haan. These lightweight beauties were hiding in the secret back room clearance area. Did you know that most Cole Haan shoes boast concealed Nike Air technology? These do too, and are soooo comfy. Originally in the $200.00 range, my final price was $69.00 Cha-ching!

  • Heritage weave detailing on vamp straps. (LOVE the word “vamp”)
  • Jute-wrapped detail at midsole.
  • Stacked platform and wedge heel.

colehaaan

Another shopaholic in Cole Haan was wearing the most adorable sandals so of course I asked her where she purchased them after I complimented her excellent taste in footwear and to my surprise and delight, she pointed right around the corner at Nine West. As soon as I completed my purchase at CH, I scurried over to NW. Could you just DIE? These are the mostest totes adorbs; could be my favorite sandal EVER. Can you make out the sparkles? Sigh.

sandalsAt another store, can’t even remember the name of it ‘cos I was on a M-I-S-S-I-O-N,  y’all, I stocked up on discounted Kiehl’s. It was at that point I wished I had someone with me to carry all my bags, or at least another arm or two.

The new Kate Spade store was open and really crowded. I tried on a couple of cute dresses, but nothing spoke to me in a demanding tone of voice, so I left with nothing, but that’s OK, too.

I’m resting up for tomorrows adventure, my favorite Nordstrom Outlet!

I’m Happy, Happy, Happy!

 

Hot, Dry. Swirling Winds of Hell Must Mean It’s My Birthday!

I was SO happy to arrive in Carlsbad that I almost dropped to my knees to kiss the ground but then I remembered all the germs and disgusting things that people spit out, and my better judgment prevailed.

We got Angel Boy all settled in; now I’m working on creating meals and recipes that are appropriate for post-surgery, and that includes a lot of things we NEVER have in the house: white bread, white potatoes, white rice.

Because of that major abdominal surgery, he’s on a low fiber, low residue diet for a couple more weeks, and then we can gradually add cooked veggies and fruits, with the goal to be back on his regular diet in about six weeks.

I’ll set aside a whole post of recipes that I’ve adapted to meet his specific needs. It’s tough for me ‘cos I’m all about whole grains and tons of greens and wheat grass and smoothies, and I think all Angel Boy wants is one of my famous two-pound breakfast burritos. He’s lost about ten pounds that he didn’t need to lose (why can’t that be me??)

Before all this happened…the phone call at 3 a.m., flying east and living at the hospital for ten days, I was planning to write a really funny post about my birthday (which is today) — something about the face of 60 — yes, I mean SIXTY YEARS OLD — and how I still feel like I’m about thirteen, and then take a bunch of selfies to commemorate my special day — but I’m too busy helping my son recuperate (a full-time job).

,,,AND I just drove to the airport at 5 a.m. to put my tugboat man on a flight ‘cos he’s going away for a month — ON MY F-ING BIRTHDAY!!!!

Live is not fair, you guys!

Geez, nothing is working out for me today. I can’t even go shopping and drown my sorrows in some good old fashioned retail therapy.

And why is that, you ask?

Because SoCal is under some witchy-type spell and the boiling hot bowels of hell opened up; we’ve got record-breaking 100 degree temps AT THE BEACH in May when it’s normally cool and cloudy, and raging fires have started which turns the air all smoky and unbreathable, thanks to almost hurricane-force winds blowing from the east — a true Santa Ana that we normally only get in the fall.

To make matters worse, there are armies of ants invading every pore of our house —  even the ants are trying to escape the heat — and I’ve gone through an entire can of Raid in my attempts to dissuade them from setting up residence at Casa de Enchanted Seashells  — which means the house smells like insecticide — can you hear my screams of frustration?

Well, it’s back to cleaning and laundry and making special food every two hours for my Angel Boy. Hopefully, it’ll cool off a bit later on and we can go for a walk on the beach.

Happy Birthday to me!!!!!!

P.S. You must know that I’m really happy to be caring for Angel Boy and spending my birthday with him is an added bonus — considering that we might have lost him, even the thought of another bowl of Cream of Wheat can’t dampen my joy!

The new face of 60…(along with the top Chanel makeup artist from NY)

chanel makeover

 

Silent Sunday: Sexy #Chanel Sunglasses

 

 

The new collection…MUST HAVE THESE! Must feed my Chanel obsession. chanelsunglases

 

not needy, wanty

How to Get What You Want, But Not Necessarily What You Need

From me, Princess Rosebud,  the Tugboat Captain’s Wife, with all the answers to all the questions and dilemmas.

The Rolling Stones
“You Can’t Always Get What You Want”
 (yes, you can!)

By now, I’d say that most of the inhabitants of these United States of America, parts of Canada and various other counties have stopped by Casa de Enchanted Seashells to read my blog. (Ha ha, not really, but nearly 100,000 of you have visited me; holla!)

Today’s lesson will be brief, but I suggest that you bookmark it because you never know when you’ll need the benefit of my wisdom.

OK.

Here’s the background…

My tugboat man had to leave unexpectedly just prior to our majorly huge 20th wedding anniversary, you know that, right?

*Sigh*

I can’t say it’s all that much of a surprise because it happens every so often that when he’s supposed to be home, he’ll get asked to relieve another captain who might have a medical condition or a family issue, and that’s what happened this time.

That’s the bad news. The good news is that he’s only gone for two weeks and he’ll return this weekend. Yay for that!

I’m just gonna say this one more time — I KNOW that I am a spoiled and very lucky Princess, upon whom my long suffering tugboat man lavishes expensive and utterly useless gifts from time to time.

Yes, I KNOW that I have three Chanel handbags — well, two plus a matching wallet. CHANEL2.55

opal diamond ringI KNOW that he got me an amazing opal and diamond ring last year.

I also KNOW that I PROMISED that was going to last me and my shopaholic obsessions for a good long while.

Hee hee. I LIED. Promises are meant to be broken, blah blah, he didn’t for one minute think I was serious about it.

I am SO funny; at least I amuse myself, whatev.

So…working off a bit of guilt because he was away for “the big one” and his innate niceness and desire to make me happy — (btw, how did I get like one of the best guys in the land?) — I searched my heart (and the internet) and decided that I NEEDED a new wedding band to carry our love through the next twenty years.

Are you following me?

With my laser focused research and shopping skills, and after hours and hours of trying on every kind of anniversary band and eternity band I could pack on these fat little fingers, I found the perfect one!

With hub being away, there was no annoying voice distracting me from my mission.

It turned out that the eternity band is not a practical design for someone like me who lifts weights and hikes and gardens and is generally kind of rough on jewelry, especially since I want to wear it 24/7.

Plus, half the diamonds are hidden that way, and I want to be the one to enjoy the sparkle. Who cares about anyone else? Hmmm?

I found a beautiful channel set anniversary band met all the criteria and was screaming to come home with me. It was only .50 carats, not the biggest carat weight, but I think it perfectly complements my engagement band.

How could I resist the call of the sparkle?

I got it sized so now it’s impossible to return! ***That’s an important part of the lesson.

Plus, definitely be exceeding grateful, if you know what I mean. Be EXTREMELY appreciative, wink, wink.

Ta da! I don’t know how to take a pic to show the sparkle, but they do for reals.

Pretty!Anniversaryring1 Pretty!anniversaryring2 Nasty old lady handsanniversaryring3

In closing, f you need a a refresher course about how to get what you deserve, give me a call @1-800-PrincessRosebud