2004-01-08

(In which our heroine learns to bloody well try things on before she buys them, for a fucking change.)

In a captivating turn of events, I purchased a new coat the other day. Although this may not get your heart pounding with breathless excitement, it is a pretty big deal for me, since I�ve been wearing the same ratty black flight jacket for going on eight years. I wasn�t going to bother investing in a bulky winter jacket this year, since in five months� time I�ll be moving to England, which doesn�t really have �weather� as such; but I found this coat massively on sale for twenty bucks, and I couldn�t resist � it�s so lovely! It�s dark blue denim, thick-lined, with outrageously-faux-fur cuffs and collar! It reaches my knees! It makes me look bell-shaped and feminine, and much less like an overstuffed, ambulatory garbage bag! It goes nicely with my kicky Israeli Army shoulder bag! (It�s true, folks: billions of dollars in US military aid will buy you not only a ruthlessly efficient illegal occupation, but some truly natty swag as well. I love my bag.)

Naturally, I snatched the coat off the rack and took it straight to the cashier. Later that day, when I attempted to don my new purchase, I realized that it was missing two buttons. Curses! Oh well � for twenty dollars, it�s worth having a few buttons replaced. The next morning, I brought the coat to the little tailor shop here in the Big Brother-Plex. I held up the garment, clearly indicating the blank spaces in the row of buttons, and helpfully explained to the friendly Italian lady that the coat was �missing a few buttons.�

She looked perplexed.

�Can you replace them?� I said. �They�re just regular jean buttons.�

She looked put out. �We don�t have the same buttons.�

�That�s fine,� I reassured her. �I don�t care if they�re identical.�

�You�ll have to go to the dollar store and buy some buttons,� she told me.

I see. So, when she said she didn�t have �the same buttons,� she actually meant �any buttons.� Perhaps I should have left the coat at home and brought in a pile of money to be laundered, because this �tailoring� business is obviously just a front � what the fuck, no buttons? What do they tailor, body bags? For the love of my coat, I refrained from asking �Anything else I can pick up for you? Needle and thread, perhaps?� and simply did as instructed. One set of shiny silver buttons, fifteen dollars and five hours later, I felt slightly shafted, but I was pleased to see my coat now sporting an entirely new row of buttons.

Again, I jubilantly put it on, and buttoned it up�or tried to, at least, before I realized that what I�ve wishfully dreamed is actually true: Jack White is singing to me alone. The new buttons aren�t any bigger than the old ones, but for some reason the buttonholes are too small, or the material is too thick, or�something. After five minutes, my fingers felt like I�d been unscrewing rusted bolts with my bare hands.

I love my new coat, but my love is star-crossed! Why must fate keep me in the cold? I shake my mangled fist at the sky!

I insist, of course, on wearing the fucking thing. It takes about ten minutes and an explosive burst of frustrated cussing to get the damn thing done up, but on the �suffering for fashion� scale, this still falls firmly in the �worth it� column, because baby, it is COLD outside. Better to bruise my fingertips than lose my extremities entirely.