[Spoiler alert: they aren’t.]
The Millennial sorority girls are furious because now they’re going to look like the poors who shop at big box retailers, and then how will everyone know that they have the kind of indulgent mommies and daddies who pay for their college educations AND delightful shift dresses?
To the bloggers, I say, “I feel you, and, yet…”
To the sorority girls, I say, “Definitely boycott. More for me.”
January 2015
I undergo Achilles rupture repair surgery. While this has nothing to do with expensive cotton dresses directly, put a pin here, this part becomes relevant soon.
March 2015
The Lilly + Target Look Book is released and I immediately favorite sixty-six items, including the dresses I’ve wanted so badly for the lion’s share of my life. I pay off one of my credit cards and then shove it in a desk drawer so that I won’t be tempted to use it.
When the time comes to claim my Lilly, I’ll be ready.
Early April 2015
I cross off days in my Lilly planner. April 19th can’t come fast enough.
Mid-April 2015
I am now down significant pounds and I make my first non-accessory-based Lilly purchase. Who knew she offered XL? The dress is too tight, but hopefully not for long, as I’ve been deeply committed to getting healthier/smaller. In the interim, I look forward to wearing the shit out of Target + Lilly, especially for the price point.
April 18th, 2015, morning
I make a paper list, prioritizing everything I want. My plan is to start at the top of my list and keep going until Visa calls about potential fraud.
[American Express did the same thing once when I was buying sneakers. Given my charge history – big dinners, fancy accessories, and Lane Bryant – they didn’t believe I’d shop in a running store.]
Anyway, I cannot believe I’ll finally have something Lilly that I can wear right-freaking-now other than a shoe, a bag, or a scarf. I scour the web for tips on how to score the most merch and set up my Target.com profile accordingly. I learn that even if I place an item in my cart, it’s not mine until I pay. Someone could snatch it away if I’m not speedy enough with my typing, which is why I preregister. I don’t want to lose out on a thirty-five-year quest because I’ve fat-fingered my address in an adrenaline surge.
I’m so excited I can’t even stand it!
One thing tempers my joy after perusing Target’s Facebook page, though. I run across a comment from a teenage girl’s mother. Her plus-sized preppy daughter has been waiting her whole life to buy some Lilly [RIGHT?!] and she’s just now seeing that the items are offered only online. The daughter’s devastated. She longed for the experience of finally trying on clothes with her thinner friends and now she can’t.
This breaks my heart.
I’m so disappointed for this stranger’s kid. As an adult, I know what it’s like when fit friends shop the cute stores, and I’m all, “Come find me at Cinnabon when you’re done.” To go through this experience as a teen when everything feels a million times worse? I can’t.
Yet this is not my circus, these are not my monkeys. I’m not involved, I’m not the world’s hall monitor.
So, do I want a swimsuit?
Yes. I want all the – goddamn it, I’m still on this kid thing.
I read that the daughter’s been squirreling away her birthday cash for months in anticipation. She has the funds to buy a few pieces, but the family doesn’t have a credit card she can use. She might have to miss the whole goddamned sale if her mom can’t figure something out. And the girl is so sweet that she tries to tell her mom that she’ll be okay whatever happens.
No. NO. Stop.
Stop thinking about this.
This is what happens when I’m nosy. I find out things I don’t want to know and then I’m stuck carrying them around with me. It’s my own fault for being snoopy.
Let it go.
Instead, I’ll just check out the pretty rickrack fringe on the scarf and-
The mother isn’t asking for anything in her post, no special favors, no accommodations; she’s just venting her frustration, articulating how and why this business decision impacts real people.
I think about my stupid credit card waiting for me in my desk and I’m overwrought with guilt. I have such empathy for this family, even though nothing in this situation has anything to do with me.
“Universe, please let this kid get what she wants. Please give her a win,” I ask in silent prayer. I’m glad she has a family who cares so much, a mom who’s so invested in her happiness that she prioritizes her daughter’s needs over her own. But I wonder if when she sees all her pals in the Fan Dance dress she wanted, that unconditional love will feel like it matters at all.
Maybe I should step away from the computer for a while.
April 18th, 2015, afternoon
I web-chat with a Target.com rep to find out what time the items will be available online after never being able to connect with anyone on their (800) number. I don’t understand why Target.com won’t let me pre-order, or why I can’t transfer my Look Book favorites to my cart, but, whatever.
I have faith in Target.
A few years ago, I had dinner with their book-buying reps and I learned how the company operates. That is, when I wasn’t having a heated argument with them over whether Don Knotts was gay, not that it mattered either way.
[Who knew this was such a hot-button issue?]
The process is, each buyer spends a rotation purchasing for a different region of the store. Those doing reading material now might oversee housewares or electronics on the next round; it’s all widgets as far as Target’s concerned. That’s because their inventory-management systems are sophisticated to the point they can predict the success of a product based on a single item in a single store in an hour’s time. Their algorithms are freaking amazing.
Yet this explains why there have been so few decent extended sizes in the stores when their plus selection used to be plentiful and adorable. Though baggy now, I still have the darling Target tan-and-pink argyle sweater with the white oxford collar that I bought in the early 2000s.
I imagine a thin female buyer (or maybe a young man) who didn’t know how plus clothes should fit was cycled into the rotation. I imagine his or her picks didn’t sell. This is likely because the buyer wasn’t aware he/she should opt for sturdier, more flattering fabrics which drape better, or for tops that cover the hips.
[Newsflash – most bigger girls don’t love belly-shirts. And for the love of all that is holy, no one wants pants sheer enough to show cellulite.]
While I advocate for being comfortable with yourself at any size, this tends to be easier in clothes that draw attention to assets, not liabilities. So, when consumers didn’t snap up the flimsier, silk-type fabrics and hip-skimming garb, that told Target that women of size didn’t shop there, so they carried less. We subsequently bought less, to the point that this department morphed into two sad racks of basics, often accidentally mixed with maternity-wear.
Because this can’t be stated enough, plus and maternity are not the same thing.
April 18th, 2015, late afternoon
I wonder how that kid and her mom are doing.
April 18th, 2015, 11:39 p.m.
“You going to bed?” Fletch asks.
“No,” I reply. “I’m going to sit here until I can place my order online when the site goes live.”
“Ha, what are you going to do, stay up all night?”
“Of course not! I’m going to set my alarm to wake up and check every hour until dawn. I mean, what am I, a college student pulling an all-nighter because she never read her Bio textbook?”
11:59 p.m.
Fletch comes into my office to say, “Hey, I just saw something interesting on a new family tree leaf. Looks like I’m descended from-”
I cut him off, screeching, “The site might go live any second, no talking, I need to concentrate!”
April 19th, 2015, 12:05 a.m.
Social media reports that the site won’t go live until 12:00 a.m. PST. I consider hitting the sheets, but who am I kidding? No kid can sleep on Christmas Eve, especially if it’s possible that Santa might appear early with a sack full of appropriately-sized shift dresses.
Also, it’s already abundantly clear that I am a college student about to pull an all-nighter because I never read my Bio textbook.
Like it would be the first time.
12:06 a.m.
I have refreshed the web page twenty times in the past minute, with my iPad and phone at hand, just in case. The model who looks exactly like Tracee Ellis Roth remains ever vigilant on the Look Book page.
12:07 a.m.
Reports indicate that some links are coming online, but I can’t access them, no matter how quickly I refresh. Tracee Ellis Roth’s doppelgänger, why must you taunt me?
12:08 a.m.
I start clicking the posted Twitter links, willing to chance that this is a scam. I’m able to grab three shift dresses and the one weird satin romper-type piece that I don’t even like solely because I’ve been whipped into a thirty-five-year-brewing kind of frenzy.
Aieeee, this is the best night of my life!
I don’t even look at accessories because I am not going to content myself with the fat-girl consolation prizes of scarves and bags, okay?
Not. Happening.
I want a shift dress that fits me right now. While I begin the checkout process, everything but the shoes and the weird piece disappear because I wasn’t fast enough, damn it!
12:09 a.m.
I click again and again, trying to check out as I load new items in my cart. I keep getting the Target dog with the bull’s-eye, which is basically the new Fail Whale. Hate this dog so much. Also, hate Tracee Ellis Roth by osmosis. That’s it. Am taking Blackish off my DVR as soon as this nightmare is over.
12:10 a.m.
The links suddenly show items as unavailable. Pieces are already selling out and the site’s not even technically live yet. What in the actual fuck? Is the demand truly this great? In my head, I knew it would be the event to end all events. In the real world, I imagined it wouldn’t be so popular. Wouldn’t Target have anticipated demand and planned accordingly? How can this be? The Twitter-verse begins to lose its collective mind as #LillyforTarget trends.
12:11 a.m.
Almost every tweet in my timeline is either the fortunate few who’ve placed orders or the bulk of everyone else who hasn’t. The panic is palpable. Mentally, I congratulate Target’s PR team because this is an unmitigated success with all the brand-awareness. At the same time, I curse the IT team.
Agony!
Ecstasy!
Prints!
12:12 a.m.
Thousands of women just like me are going through the exact same rollercoaster of emotions right now. One of the big draws of blogging back in the day was the appeal of “finding one’s tribe.” If the trending #LillyforTarget is any indication, with their jokes about this being the preppy women’s Hunger Games, I’ve stumbled onto mine. I try not to let my mind wander to thoughts of that girl because it bums me out.
She’ll be fine, right?
12:13 a.m.
I discover tweets from my new best friend, Jason Goldberger. He’s the president of Target.com. He assures everyone that the links shouldn’t have been leaked and that online buying has been halted. He confirms that we can shop at 2:00 a.m. and the full inventory will be available. YAY!! The sensible person would try to get some sleep now.
I am not sensible.
12:14 a.m.
I have a moment of perspective. My life won’t end if I don’t get what I want, despite impeccable planning and budgeting. Also? I live in a world where hunger, poverty, homelessness, war, and melting polar ice caps are legitimate concerns, where nice teen girls can’t catch a break, and where the true disaster of Lindsay Lohan playing Liz Taylor exists, so I try to keep my freak out to a minimum.
I am wholly unsuccessful.
12:15 a.m. to 1:59 a.m.
Obsessively refreshing Target.com and dying over the hilarious hashtagged tweets, where users are begging Jesus to take the wheel at Target.com.
OMG, these people should be my friends!
Suddenly, bonding over terrible sports teams makes sense.
At this point, I notice I’m trying to buy Lilly without wearing my pearls (even though I’m wearing my jammies) and I immediately right the situation.
Clearly, I need my talisman.
Pearls are my signature item, my good luck charm, my calling card, if you will, because they add an air of elegance to anything. A string of pearls and a pair of Ray Bans transforms every woman into Audrey Hepburn. Fact.
I became obsessed with pearls when I was fifteen and received a strand while we were staying at my great aunt Arabella’s house in Boston. My mother took her own prized necklace and gave it to me in a tiny red silk bag on the morning of my birthday. I’d been coveting this particular piece of jewelry for years and was over the moon at the largess of this gift. I wore them for the family event that night and felt like a movie star, the heady combination of Diane Lane with her girl-next-door appeal and Phoebe Cates and her exotic charm. I’d never received such a meaningful present. Pearls made me feel confident and worthy, an external validation of what I hoped to cultivate internally.
When we returned to Indiana, my mother took the pearls back without explanation or apology. Honestly, I believe she was so wrapped up in the bliss of having been in back east for a big family event that her joy manifested itself in her being more generous than intended. She had giver’s regrets. Instead of living with her decision, she simply rescinded. I’d still sneak wearing them whenever she wasn’t around… weren’t they technically mine?
As an adult, I discovered freshwater pearls. I like them just as much as their more sophisticated, expensive older sisters. Plus, I can buy freshies on Amazon.com for less than fifty bucks! Now I have them in a handful of lengths and sizes and I always carry a spare in my purse. That’s just in case I ever forget to put them on before I leave the house. I feel naked without their familiar weight around my neck.
[Honest to God, I’d rather forget to wear deodorant.]
Pearls on, I’m still panicking, despite my earlier dose of perspective.
While I have faith in Target’s abilities, a part of me worries the site will crash the minute everyone logs on. I tweet to Jason Goldberger that this had best work or he’s going to experience the wrath of angry, preppy, fat women wielding pitchforks in Minneapolis.
He does not respond. I give him a pass, assuming he’s a tad busy. I appreciate his transparency, so there’s that. TargetStyle’s twitter feed assures me [by me, I mean everyone] that all is well and the wait will be worth it.
2:00 a.m.
Site is not live.
2:01 a.m.
Site is not live.
2:02 a.m.
Site is not live and now my coming completely and utterly unhinged has frightened poor little Libby. She thumps her tail anxiously as she watches me from her spot on the bed.
2:03 a.m.
Ahhhh!!! I’m in!!! Let’s do this.
I click on a few items at a time, grabbing the pieces I want most, knowing the smartest way to go is to check out after every few items.
From what I understand, online buyers are able to purchase only five items of the same style to keep people from sweeping up everything and then selling the whole lot on eBay.
Well, good. I’m glad because hoarding is horseshit. Sure, it’s capitalism, but it’s also super-douchey and terrible karma. The whole point of this exercise is to get something awesome at the discount price-point.
Happy with the few shift dresses and the Nosey Posey shirt, I click to check out. And all the contents of my cart go poof.
Gone.
Into the ether.
2:04 a.m.
I simultaneously try to shop on my phone, i
Pad, and desktop using two browsers. Poof! Poof! Poof, poof! Everything’s vanishing! Now the light blue dress is legit sold out! Target, why is this happening? Did your marketing department even TALK to the IT guys? Give ‘em a head’s up? Didn’t anyone prepare for this at Target corporate?
This already feels as dumb as the time the stores covered all the big red protective safety spheres with fabric that made them look like beach balls. Said covers only lasted a day, at least at the Target on Elston in the city, because they were practically begging to be kicked, only for the kicker to discover they were solid cement.
[FYI, I know where to buy a fine protective CAM boot, in case it ever happens again. In fact, I’m wearing mine right now.]
2:05 a.m.
The website has crashed.
Where’s my pitchfork, Jason Goldberger?
Target won’t say the website has crashed; they use Orwellian doublespeak to say they’re “optimizing the experience.” Newsflash – my experience is the opposite of optimal right now, you filthy sons of bitches.
If they know how much Tide to buy for the whole company based on one shelf in Lima, Ohio, why are they so grossly unprepared for this? Their reaction is like those folks who are perpetually surprised that it’s Christmas already – does no one own a calendar?
2:06 to 2:31 a.m.
Make it work. Pleeeeeease. Jason Goldberger, I implore you, make it work. I do not tweet “I am Googling where you live and sharpening my pitchfork, Goldberger!” because, crazy. That doesn’t stop me from thinking it.
Seriously, Jason Goldberger; I thought you were cool.
I refresh the page every three seconds. Nothing. I should go to bed and cut my losses, leaving early for the store tomorrow. Maybe I can get XLs in the store and they’ll eventually fit?
Or I could just buy shoes and scarves and bags, like always.
Like fucking always.
2:32 a.m.
Aha! In again! I grab a few of the key items and check out before the whole thing goes down again like so many over-privileged Millennial sorority girls. Listen up, sisters: for all your grousing, for all your posturing, for all your, “It’s not REAL Lilly quality,” and, “I would never buy tampons and dresses in the same place,” I know you’re here, too, or else the damn website wouldn’t have crashed.
Stories I'd Tell in Bars Page 8
