Hi, Monday Monday. Can't trust that day or so the song goes...
So it was a lovely weekend and I'm currently freelancing downtown in Soho 'bout a block from my old rent controlled crib on Sixth Avenue. Needless to say, the old neighborhood continues to become more aggressively 1% by the second. And though my current neighborhood in Brooklyn has more construction sites than not, I'm still always a little bit sad when places you used to count on no longer exist. There's something about fav haunts closing that make a New Yorker feel extra mortal. See ya, Milady's. Not sure why but that one still stings.
One thing that doesn't change in Soholand is the dominance of shopping as preferred sport. So many tourists, and so little time for that. And since shopping is an athletic endeavor in this neighborhood, it stands to reason that sales staff in all of these spendy stores are in it to win it (and perhaps get all kinds of Brienne of Tarth on your ass (GOTS fans, you know what that means).
And when it comes to games of thrones of the retail variety, I'd say the DKNY store over on West Broadway takes the crown.
There's many a moment when, oh, I don't know, I'm in the mood for an organic cotton tee shirt, a pair of oversized black pants, or one of a million black schmattas that could skew very quickly into menopausal art teacher land, but somehow can also be super cute if worn well. But every time I go in this store, I get ambushed. Everybody who works in this store is out for blood, and wild eyed and filled with thoughts of pillaging your wallet- and they can smell fear. Since DKNY's brand values have always stood for this city itself- I shouldn't be surprised that the team over there is aggressive, in your face, and INTENSE.
But clearly I'm a glutton who never learns, because today at lunch I took a walk around Soho, enjoying the weather and the sunshine and the good sandals everywhere. On a whim II popped into DKNY, looking for a schmattah or two when, like clockwork, I got attacked from a crazy eyed lady who proceeded to pile items of clothing into a dressing room and before I knew it, I had my little mini bottle of Poland Spring and an enormous (and non air conditioned) dressing room chock full of separates. There were weird yellow trousers, billowy dresses that felt like birth control, and something shinyish with a balloon hem (I hate a balloon hem). The jersey harem pants I had come for were somehow lost in a sea of "funky" pieces that I simply did not need, want, or like. But these ladies in that store will find a way to get you to try it all on, while they incessantly knock on your dressing room door and say things like "can I see anything?" or "can i get you a size?" or "what are you liking?" As a shopper who usually knows what she wants, I find this to be worse than most criminal offenses. Leave me alone you spindly curled, wild eyed, yoga bodied and carb starved DKNY lady. Leave. Me. Alone. You're making me feel weird.
I remember a dear pal of mine going in there years ago, innocently enough, and coming out with about three of those "cozy" sweaters that she was coerced into buying (you know the one- that wrappy number that's great but EVERYWHERE). I'll never forget watching her get attacked by a draped and swaddled saleswoman, who draped and swaddled my friend like she was the baby Jesus. And just like that, a portion of your rent is gone, and all you have are three sweaters you don't even want to wear when you have your period. Sigh.
I'm telling you this story as a cautionary tale- it's tempting to come to Soho and shop bop and eat cupcakes and spot celebrities, but please stay aware from DKNY, unless your plan is to part with beaucoup dollars and get attacked by black clad zombies with lots of chunky accessories. As for those harem pants, the system was down and they couldn't sell them to me. I put them on hold so as the lady would not have a stroke, but I ain't goin' back for 'em. DKNY I do like you, but your stalkerati salesforce really brings me down. Call off your dogs, would you?
And that's what's up this sell, sell, sell kind of Monday in the can't be bought isle of Manhattan. Yours, in who needs another pair of black hammer pants anyway? (May look for them online later). XO