Exploring American Apparel

Another weekend went by and my procrastination, coupled with an eternal love of vodka, overshadowed any hope of being productive, once again. My lover and I always talk big about how we are going to put in a closet system to get our shit off the ground or about how we are going to order a desk so the little Chihuahua that inhabits our condo will no longer be able to pee on the bills and other important papers that we leave laying on the ground. I can’t really fault Mischa for this behavior since I often want to piss on bills too and would probably consider it more seriously if the toilet was twice as high as my head and my other option was to take a shadoobie on the Astroturf next to the sidewalk as hundreds of people milled around me. Instead, there was another weekend where we grit our teeth after discovering more spiteful doggy incontinence and the majority of my clothing remained in its new home in the bed of my boyfriend’s truck. Clearly, organization and moving aren’t my strengths.

What is it that I do, you may wonder, that keeps me from figuring out how to turn on the oven or fold laundry? Well, this weekend my boyfriend and I convinced ourselves that we needed some quality “us” time together just hanging out, since occupying the same bed every night isn’t sufficient. Then there were errands and the gym, of course. Obviously Bobby also needed to go on a motorcycle ride for half of Saturday with his homies, which I support only because he wears a fanny pack on these excursions. To be honest, I would probably support him sleeping with prostitutes if he wore a fanny pack while doing it. Small waist purses are a particular weakness of mine. Clearly I wasn’t going to do anything productive by myself, so I slept half of the day before dragging my ass out of bed. If the dog doesn’t need to go out, no one is making enough noise to wake me up, and Prince isn’t knocking at my door to profess his love for me then I jump at the opportunity to stay snuggled under the covers dreaming of a more productive life.

Saturday afternoon only supplied a limited amount of time before Bobby and I needed to hook up our Belvedere IV’s in preparation to see Chelsea Handler perform stand up. I got the tickets for the event months before and had grown to consider it a more important date than all of the major holidays in the year combined. At a minimum, I considered it more important than Christmas, Flag Day, and Canadian Thanksgiving. There was a brief window of time to make it to the American Apparel flea market sale downtown. Bobby had recently taken a curious interest in becoming a hipster and I just lost my exceptionally lucrative nanny job, so this seemed like a peerless shopping opportunity for us both.

You may wonder why is it that anyone would want to be a hipster. I often wonder the same thing when I contemplate how long it must take to get those tight pants on. In a futile attempt to stay young and hip, Bobby has come to the conclusion that gearless bikes, ridiculous facial hair, unflattering clothes, and immense amounts of irony will qualify him as “rad” or “cool” once again. Luckily he has me around to veto all of his brilliant ideas of what is fresh, therefore keeping him relatively presentable. For someone who claims to have never touched drugs, I ask you, what sober mind decided that handle bar mustaches need to make a comeback? Clearly, someone is spiking his protein shakes with acid. I was quick to remind my delusional mate how stupid he looked with a soul patch in the 90’s, which didn’t help my cause since he is still convinced it was a good look for him. My affinity for fanny packs doesn’t really help my arguments either.

Luckily, my stallion of yester years is in great physical shape, making hipster clothing completely impossible for him to pull off. I immediately told him that his meaty thighs would prevent him from fitting in at an MGMT concert, which was fine with me since I don’t own an outfit that would make me look like an elderly librarian in a Mid-Western town. I backed my position by suggesting he stop working out and adopt anorexia as a method to attain the necessary hipster figure. You can imagine the look of disgust on his face.

The American Apparel sale was the final nail in the coffin, completely crushing Bobby’s dreams of going back in time to relive his life in a way that would put him in a position to be wasting a Vassar education to work as a Barista at a tiny coffee shop in North Park while taking drags off of hand-rolled cigarettes and writing poetry. As he looked around, Bobby quickly discovered the living nightmare that hipsters around the globe are subjected to on a daily basis: there is no way you can know who is a boy or girl without strip searching everyone! Maybe this is a a slight exaggeration, because I suppose if you can see faces then you can tell the gender by the distinctive outdated facial hair or the likelihood that the girls will be wearing a headband with a flower on it. Perhaps the females may also wear something with lace on it, possibly a skirt. However, from the back, all hipsters look completely androgynous based on clothing, haircut, or body type alone. I guess the benefit of this trend in fashion is that even though clothes are completely unflattering, you can always dig through your childhood wardrobe to find the perfect ill-fitting pair of pants. Becoming a hipster is definitely a way to save money in these economic times. You can thank your lucky stars that your mother is a pack rat and held on to those hot mess outfits. And guys, don’t worry if you were into Jenko’s as a youth. Just find your sister’s old duds and you will be all set. It doesn’t really matter if they are girls’ or boys’ clothes anyway, since you will inevitably be pushing your junk to one side and suffocating your balls, lowering the likelihood of you reproducing in the future and saving us from a world of hipster babies (a tip of the hat to you).

Bobby didn’t seethe in disappointment for too long; probably because he was in complete awe and utter fascination by the large room of people all looking through the same clothing racks, regardless of gender. It was like a petting zoo of asymmetrical haircuts, PBR hangovers, and parents’ credit cards used to fund a lack of style. Why do we even bother with cable if there is an American Apparel sale going on down the street? Bobby quickly gave up on finding any clothing that would be of value to his image and took to helping me find the perfect pair of retro terry cloth shorts. What a rockstar boyfriend I have.

I walked out of the store that day with some great finds at next to nothing prices. Beyond the standard plain t-shirts, shorts, and leggings, I hit the jackpot when I found a doggy t-shirt for Mischa that said, “Legalize Gay.” I’m pretty convinced my dog is a lesbian since she regularly sneaks out of our bed under the cloak of nightfall to have a panty party all alone. I wake up to every pair of underwear I own strewn across the floor, crotch licked nearly to disintegration. Bobby is still fast asleep, so I know he didn’t do it; but Mischa is usually hiding under the bed or blankets on some sort of vagina juice high, like a satisfied crack addict. I put the underwear away carefully either up high or in zipped bags, so I honestly don’t know how she gets to it. She must grow opposable thumbs when the sun goes down or maybe she has some sort of psychic powers to move things that are usually out of reach to her. I can’t be certain because she waits until I am asleep to start the panty raid. I can only assume that she likes girls because she never touches Bobby’s underwear and I have tried to set her up with my friends’ male Chihuahua’s, Chancho and Chico, to no avail. When I tell her that Chancho has a crush on her, she just looks at me as though I am suggesting she shack up with manatee. As her mother, I accept her the way she is and was overjoyed to find a shirt for her in support of revoking Prop 8. I am a big advocate of the LGBT organization, regularly donating to the cause. I know that if Mischa could read that she would be proud of her new shirt.

My other fantastic find was a white thong with blue and red writing that reads, “Made in USA” complete with a pair of thigh high tube socks. Although this sounds less than sexy to the average man, my patriotic partner would rather come home to see me laying seductively in camouflage cargos or American flags than lacey lingerie, latex, or leather. I essentially found his birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s, and 4th of July gifts in an American Apparel sale bin. Unconventional? Creepy even? Maybe, but considering I find him sexy in a fanny pack I guess this is just another example of how birds of a feather sleep together.