Moose in the Closet



Closeted Meese Unite!


There's another Moose in the Closet. No, it's not Tom Cruise. I found Jason's site when I did a google search a few weeks after I started my Moose in the Closet, a spin off of my Moose in the Kitchen blog. I was fully bummed to find that someone had stolen the name before I had even thought of it. But I figured that the content was so vastly different that no one on this large interweb of ours could possibly get confused. My closeted moose persona started as a joke, a sublimation of my urge to shop and be unabashedly shallow. (I do like to be unabashedly shallow.)

Jason graciously decided to not make a fuss about it - as he probably could have, given that he had the name first. In fact, given our respective Moose identities, our identical ages, and the fact that we both started our blogs for the same reason, I'm beginning to think my parents are dirty rotten liars and separated us at birth. Probably best. I used to tie my younger brother to a tree and sent him to the emergency room on more than one occasion. You narrowly escaped your fate, Sir Jason.

I started Moose in the Kitchen to write every day and turn my very ordinary life into something that might reasonably entertain my three readers. Here's what Jason says about the origins of his Moose in the Closet: "The goal is to turn even the most trivial events into entertaining stories in an attempt to make an average life seem extraordinary."

The parents definitely have some explaining to do.

People coming here from Jason's site are not exactly my target audience. Seeing as you're mainly men and probably not too interested in cute little outfits. If you are, you're in an entirely different closet. However, feel free to cruise the underwear shots and redeem your masculinity. But check out Moose in the Kitchen. I do astoundingly stupid things that sometimes result in injury. Men (at least the ones I like) tend to identify with that.


Working From Home


Some of the best reasons for working from home include sleeping through your commute, wearing your pajamas all day, and having your entire kitchen at your disposal. I know all you men out there would like to think that working from home entails this:


But it really means more along the lines of this:


Add some fuzzy slippers, a fuzzy dog and a tea pot and the word "freelance" suddenly sounds much more enticing.


How To Lower Your Expectations on Valentine's Day


I tend shy away from, even mock, the cliche. But Valentine's Day is, in my humble opinion, the best day of the year to go full-out with the glaringly obvious. Ladies, I highly advocate not expecting men to buy you anything. Even the glaringly obvious. Here's why: If he does, you're pleasantly surprised. If he doesn't, you don't turn into a shrieking shrew. Maybe it's only me who turns into the shrieking shrew when I don't get what I want. I imagine you are all far more mature.

Besides, we're independent women and, damn it, we can take care of our own Godiva needs. If you think Valentine's equals red roses, buy them! Argue that it doesn't count because a man didn't buy it for you and I will laugh at you. Please don't make me laugh at you.

As the best presents are the ones you buy yourself, I found these (though did not actually buy them) on the knickers blog:





Those of you men who are contemplating buying your girl a little something and are intimidated by the task of purchasing underwear that is not boxer briefs, check out Becoming a Man Through Lingerie from the Morning News. Prices noted in article are exceedingly excessive. Just so you know.

Those of you who don't think V-Day merits such expenditures, a Snickers bar with a red ribbon will still win you points. Ladies, if you're buying the chocolate for yourself, get Godivas. You deserve them.


Kermit De Frog Here


This bag says, "Weekend." This bag says, "I don't care that you just spilled a mocha in me, except for the fact that you just spilled a mocha in a 300 dollar bag." This bag says, "I AM GREEN!"


And that's why we like you, bag.


Resembling a Grownup at Work: Part II


This ensemble adds a little color to my pseudo I-no-longer-make-the-big-tax-free-bucks-babysitting wardrobe. But not too much color, as grownups aren't really allowed to have fun (Adult Handbook, Chapter 3, Section 9). Grownups pay bills, taxes, and pick up screaming two-year olds. Well, to be fair, I do these things too. Only I drink wine when I pay my bills, tequila when I pay my taxes, and throw the toys right back at the screaming two-year-olds. Before you pass judgment, I do take care to miss their shrieking little noggins. Usually.

Back to the outfit. Gorgeous skirt with a loose, casual shirt. Though I'm a bit torn on the shirt - those sleeves would be bound to collect tomato sauce. Are grownups allowed to eat pizza?




Do love that skirt. Max Studio to thank for both.


Resembling a Grownup at Work


I'm lazy. I'll be the first to admit this. I loves me the clothes, but I'm also too late getting out of bed in the morning to do more than throw on the first t-shirt in the pile. I always look like a college student whose collection of staples is none too adventurous.

In the spirit of learning how to dress like a grownup (don't worry, I won't actually do it), I poked around ye olde internet for inspiration. My inspiration seemed to come in the form of Grownups Don't Wear Color. Perhaps I will remedy that tomorrow. For now, here's a nice little tailored outfit that I will never be seen in. Lovely though it is.




Wouldn't that skirt and little cashmere sweater look great with a pair of high black boots? I thought so too. Both from blue fly.


My Books Deserve To Be Carried In Something Good


People spent a lot of time writing those books - they should have a carrying case that recognizes this effort.

If you're going to spend a lot of money on one item, it seems reasonable to spend it on your purse. You carry it with you everywhere, you want it to last, and you want to look good while it does its high-quality lasting thing. When I get to the point where I buy for quality rather than "Hey! It's three dollars cheaper at Marshall's!" I will buy myself a nice bag. Like this snazzy little Kate Spade number:


The fact that it matches all my shoes is only part of its appeal. Nice leather, gorgeous color, classic design: This may be the perfect bag. If it's not, don't tell me.



My all-encompassing, ever-abiding love for Fluevogs continues unabated and unsatiated. Especially for these:


Black pumps are always in style. Especially if they actually have style. Style that doesn't leave you snoring or remind you of your 10th grade social studies teacher with the face lifts.


The Holy Grail


I have bad eyes. Bad eyes are expensive. They need to be poked and prodded and checked and get air blown into them. They also need glasses and contacts with all the associated costs. I just made a long overdue eye appointment. Why do you fashion people care? Because, after doing the calculations, I realized that my dream shoes, red patent leather Manolo Blahniks, would be cheaper than the amount I'm going to fork over to the eye doctor next Wednesday. While you all let the horror of that statement sink in, I will share a picture of these shoes. The shoes that would complete me. I don't need a man to complete me. No. I just need a pair of red mary janes. Aren't they perfect? In that life completing sort of way?


Now, please excuse me while I go cry.



Mr. Moose and I are going to Quince tomorrow, the restaurant whose very name makes me drool. Many outfits must be scouted.

Now, none of these outfits actually reside in my closet. This is virtual scouting. The scouting one does when one is sublimating one's urge to shop. I am sublimating.

This is indeed similar to several things in my closet, dresses that might give the impression that I spent a lot of time at funerals in 1956. This one is just the right blend for a nice dinner (or funeral). The circle skirt gives the impression that you will fully enjoy your $14 appetizer and simple top to show that you aren't trying too hard.


This navy silk has a beautiful shape: tight waist, full skirt, three quarter sleeves. Also good for those dinners with plenty of cocktails.


Since I do like wearing color, this is nice. Vaguely toga-esque that calls to mind columns and Plato. If Plato wore pink. He may have. Wouldn't be surprised.


I love this color. I think it's called "peacock."

If any of you have more money than I do, the top two dresses are from Posh Girl Vintage, the bottom two are from Max Studio. Now, I'm heading to my closet to choose an outfit I actually own.


My Ode To The Librarian Look Continues



I shamelessly lifted this fetching little number from Catwalk Queen. It wouldn't work on my particular cookie-loving figure, but you thin-thighed, proportionally perfect women out there would look stunning in it. Maybe with a pair of these:


Now grab yourself a copy of Ulysses and your reading glasses and prepare to be propositioned by every man with good SAT scores.


Carnivale of Couture: The Island of Superfantasticness


Generally speaking, I wouldn't know couture if it knocked me over in the street and smothered me with suede. But my first word was "shoes" and my credit card statements prove my enduring love for sassy footwear. Manolo, shoe blogger extraordinaire, won my heart with his clever prose and excellent taste. And when your favorite shoe blogger invites you to a party - you just don't say no, people.

This week's carnivale of couture, hosted by Shangri Law, strands us at a lifelong party on The Island of Superfantasticness. Where we are all eternally superfantastic, with a little help from our also-conveniently-stranded suitcase of fashion necessities. We will now proceed to ignore the fact that my suitcase is more "battered backpack" than "Vuitton matched luggage" as well as the fact that I can't afford most of these versions of my fashion necessities. But here they are, and they rock that party isle.

1. No gorgeous sand babe is allowed on the beach without one of these - and we're all gorgeous sand babes here. That shade of orange will look particularly fetching next to the mostly naked island boy intent on feeding you roast pork and fanning your face with palm fronds (from BCBG via blue fly).


2. What sunny beach sojourn would be complete without...knee high black boots? If you've never pranced the seaside in these babies, you simply haven't lived. Perfect for stomping out the sand crabs for a nice hors d'oeuvres with your coconut cocktail. Michael Kors black suede Floozy boots. (They look fabulous with the bikini, by the way.)



3. When its time to lose the bathing suit and don the party duds, I love vintage. I would keel over in a drooling stupor without my vintage dresses. Delicate and a pain in the ass to wash, but oh-so-fabulous. Even in the sand. Besides, party islands come with personal slaves to do your handwashing. (No, it's true. I checked.)


4. To avoid resembling a pinkened shrimp, I never leave the house without this stuff - especially when sun bathing is on the menu (from Kiehl's).


5. Throw in my Lancome compact and a DuWop lip venom gloss in tulip and I am ready to do the island boogie all night long. (Or at least until the coconut cocktails kick in and I curl up under the buffet table.)


Now, please excuse me while I go search for my island boy and his roasted pork.


Mighty Good Taste


I am a rabid advocate of having your own personal style. This term can blanket any number of sins in a haze of self righteousness. If someone says you have bad taste, simply reply, "Step off, philistine. This is my Personal Style."

My personal style? T-shirts. Snoopy, squirrels, meese, pink monsters with ice cream cones riding in wagons, you name it and I have it on a t-shirt. I originally found this prime specimen at mighty goods, run by the maven of good taste, mighty girl:


In the broad hint department, if anyone ever wants to buy me a gift, simply go to mighty goods (especially the women's fashion section) and buy anything there. I will love it.



But I like to visit them online anyway:


One of the many reasons I won't be buying these (reasons which include credit card debt and too many pairs of red shoes) is that I have a nearly identical pair. Same color, same style, minus the pink flowers. Come to that, I could have these exact shoes. All I need to do is find someone in San Francisco with actual flowers in their front yard (first task: find someone with a front yard) and steal some pink blossoms. Application of the glue gun and voila! Who needs a credit card when you have glue?

Think I could hold up Prada with that same glue gun?


Eliza Doolittle, Minus the Hat



Anthropologie has a spring line of white and black dresses that make me think Audrey Hepburn watching the horse races in My Fair Lady before wrapping the dictaphone cord around Professor Higgins' throat. One step removed from Julia Roberts stomping the divets in Pretty Woman. I'd wear this to a horse race. You know, if I liked watching horses. Or races. All that's needed are the shoes for divet stomping.



I decided long ago that I would pay anything for any product if it would keep my skin from exploding with red blistering malice. Because red blistering malice is really quite unattractive. What price vanity, eh? I found a few things that are of medium dollar spendage. Not drugstore cheap but not the typical salon baby's-going-without-shoes gouge. Kiehl's and Origins are favorites. Especially this:


Oh, blue herbal moisturizer, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

1. It doesn't make me break out. When you're praying to the Patron Saint of Lepers for some relief, this is essential.
2. It leaves everything matte and non-oily, but not dry.
3. It's got cinnamon. I like cinnamon.
4. In short, it lets you pretend, at least for awhile, that you have a reasonable complexion.

I recently got tempted into cheapass mode by the fact that my face had been well-behaved. This was a mistake. There are times to be cheap. Anything involving zits is not one of them.


Yummy Stuff


Cheap perfume smells cheap. This is a quandary. I don't really mind looking cheap, but I don't want to smell like a bordello. But not wanting to smell cheap doesn't come cheap. And, essentially, I am cheap. So maybe I should just admit that I'm cheap and smell that way. But I'm also in denial. Which means I either don't wear perfume or I pony up for the good stuff. This is the good stuff:


A retail therapy expedition back when I was actually making money yielded this particular potion. It smells delicious, cost a lot, and has lasted me a good four or five years. I'm still barely half way through the bottle. As money wasting goes, I've done far worse. And I smell fantastic.


I'd Like That In Red Dye No. 3, Please


I have a red pea coat from Old Navy. I love red coats. I don't love red coats that bleed all over white shirts. Sadly, cheap coat = overexuberant red dye. This coat lasted me three years but I am considering abandoning it in favor of, well, another coat. One that won't spill its life blood out over my (slightly less than) pristine whiteness. I love this one from Posh Girl Vintage:


I would hesitate to get a vintage coat because vintage can be very delicate. My coats must battle it out on the tough San Francisco streets, streets where people bump into you and have, on occasion, been known to spill things. This is not an environment for the weak of thread.

I'm also partial to this one from Blue Fly:


White would be a poor choice when one spills more coffee than swallows. Perhaps I could dye it red. A plan guaranteed to fail. I won't be buying a coat until next year, anyway. A wise shopper would buy next year's coat at this year's sales. But I am not a wise shopper. Wise shoppers don't contemplate dumping a nice white coat into a vat of red dye, completely forgetting what the red dye did to their hair that time. Hair grows out. Coats do not.


Cotton: Not Just For Q-Tips Anymore


American Apparel gets the Moose seal of approval. It's a haven of soft, brightly colored cotton clothing that, rumor has it, was not produced in a sweatshop full of big-eyed Asian children paid 6 cents an hour. One reels in shock. I didn't know it was even possible to buy clothing in the U.S. that wasn't produced via the exploitation of others.

Along less purely altrustic lines, here's a bone for the men. Men, you want to prod your girlfriends into this store when they've dragged you shopping. Specifically, the one on Haight Street in San Francisco. No, there's no TV. No beer either. No lame excuse for a couch. Hint: Vintage porn. Your girlfriend gets to shop, you get to ogle women who were hot thirty years ago, and the Asian children are, well, probably still screwed but at least you're not supporting said screwage.

This is one of the few stores where I'm guaranteed to find something that I'm actually going to wear and can actually afford. I have this skirt in purple:


I have good memories involving this skirt. Memories I'm not going to share because they're just that good.

I also have this dress in, um, purple. It's a lighter shade. The color nazis made me do it. It shrunk in the wash and is now more R-rated than G:


More good memories.

American Apparel: Officially the best way to get laid without resorting to fishnet. Not that I have anything against fishnet (oh no) but it's not so convenient for after work dates. I think the Double A has proven itself sufficiently. Time for another visit.


I Would Wear This To The Grocery Store If I Could



This is a dress I would be tempted to wear to work, to the minimart, to the dog park. It's that lovely. I may even have an excuse to buy a dress this fabulous and feel no guilt whatsoever. Considering that I feel pangs when buying myself a latte, that's saying something.

Miss (soon to be Mrs.) Hamsterish is getting married in July. I will be holding her lipstick and snatching the microphone away from drunken wedding guests. As is expected for these wedding things, her other bridesmaids and I need dresses. Dresses that don't look like this:


Anything not of the orange-taffeta-big-bow-on-the-butt persuasion would please me, but to get something that would actually be worn again? Over and over until I'm so old and stout that the seams bust open on bingo night? How many bridesmaids can say that? Not many. Certainly not these poor souls:


Now scroll back up to the top and cleanse yourself of the eyebrow melting horror with that green beauty.



This shoe says: I have style. I have class. I have a lot of money to spend on shoes.



Moose replies: You're beautiful and elegant without being dull and I want you. Because you would look stunning with a little skirt or my black wool pinstripe pants, the pair I got at Banana Republic for half off because I am such a dynamite bargain shopper. I am dynamite, you know. In oh so many ways.


Delicate Hooves Need Fluevogs


Try as I might, words cannot describe my enduring love for Fluevogs. This love has endured, oh, almost three weeks now. Ever since I pranced into a Fluevogs store on Haight Street and was forced to drag myself out again, minus the six pairs of hallelujah-inspiring footwear that I wanted. I pined, I wasted, I mourned. For three whole blocks until I found another store. But I remain true to the Fluevog and my devotion to shoes. Especially red ones.


If these don't say librarian with seriously naughty bookshelves, I don't know what would. I will be dressing up in my librarian best as soon as I manage to conjure up the 175 clams it would take to procure these legally. Until then, I visit them and pet the computer screen.


Who Needs Oxygen?


Most days, I'm happy to live post-angry feminist bra burning. Rather than in the era o' the corset with its incipient fainting, oppression, and nine layers in August. On special occasions, however - those occasions when breathing is not the primary objective - they look damn fine.


This beauty was designed by Dark Garden. As such, it's probably in the range of $300. Mine was $20, courtesy of H&M. It's also uncomfortable, but not because of its well constructed stiffness. It's uncomfortable because the wires poke out of the fabric and dig into my ribs. But add tall black boots and a black net skirt and it looks quite fabulous. What's a little blood where fashion is concerned?


Tea of Champions



This, my friends, is good stuff. Mighty Leaf tea is the official tea of the Moose. At least it will be until the stash left in the cupboard by a house guest runs out. To quote a certain Mr. Bueller, "If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up." He was talking about a lamborghini and I'm talking about tea, but Ferris and I - we speak the same language. Though I'm not convinced he would enjoy a nice cup of loose leaf ginger twist.


Marilyn's Got Nothing On Me (But The Boobs)




As this little red bombshell number calls to mind a woman in pearls vacuuming with one hand while preparing her husband's martini in the other, it's right up my alley. My personal fashion sense has been dubbed '50s housewife. Though it would be inaccurate to imply that any housewife worth her oven mitts would associate with the likes of me or my dust bunnies. But I hear Marilyn wasn't too popular with the suburban Mah Jong set either.

If I had my way, I would be swimming through Audrey Hepburn's closet. Since my way tends to defy the laws of the time space continuum, instead I visit La Rosa on Haight Street (scene of several budget crimes) and scour posh girl vintage while breathing heavily on the computer screen.



In spite of the rampant consumerism I am perpetuating on this very site, practicality is embedded in my DNA. My grandmother, alive during the Depression, never purchased anything at full price. That thrifty gene is alive today and makes me hanker for sales. Even if I do actually need whatever I'm buying, I sometimes feel bad for spending the money - feeling that perhaps I should instead donate it to a more worthy cause than myself. That thought rarely makes its way past the preliminary stages, so don't be impressed.

Even if I had unlimited amounts of money to spend on this stuff, I think I would still hesitate to spend the $4,000 that Vogue seems to think reasonable for a purse. Wouldn't a $200 purse be just as nice? And still a tad bit expensive for a purse? Ross only charges $30.

But who am I to understand the pressures of socialites? Keeping up with the Van Muffingtons and all. Must be tiring. Lots of shopping to be done. About those Ross purchases: I am also feeling that I should start buying with an eye to quality rather than cheapskateness. I tentatively broached this new thought pattern with a gift for Mr. Moose. I wanted to replace the ratty wallet that has inhabited his back pocket for the last decade. I decided that if my Christmas gift was to last the next decade, I should buy a good one.

After pawing the leather at Coach everything else just felt wrong. So I spent more money on his wallet than I've spent on most of my coats.



And it is certifiably gorgeous. I am now grabbing his ass as much to fondle the wallet as to, well, grab his ass. All I can say about the wallet and attendant credit card bill: That sucker better last.


Anthropologie, You Cunning Wench


My work location could not be more dangerous for an errant spender. Downtown San Francisco is a shoppers' mecca, and a danger to all with credit cards clutched in their grubby little paws. There is an Anthropologie in the same building as my office. It would enter the realm of pure, unadulterated evil if I could afford anything in it. As I can't, I just visit on my lunch hour. I drool on the racks until the salespeople shoo me away.



I want this dress. It's a gorgeous silk version of the $25 H&M dress I bought in New York two years ago. This is the grownup edition. Luckily, I'm not a grownup yet. Else I might feel bad for wearing rayon.


This Is One Saucy Pig




Olivia is my hero. Aside from her obviously stellar fashion sense, she is also a highly imaginative young porker with many talents. She headlines circuses, builds skyscrapers out of sand, tells tall tales in class, moves cats. She is illustrated by Ian Falconer, an artist for the New Yorker. She is based on his young daughter. I assume that his daughter isn't actually a pig.

I was given the book Olivia Saves the Circus for Christmas. As I already have a copy, I need to regift. If anyone would like it, leave me a comment. The best comment, question, suggestion, or guilty pleasure wins. I'll even pony up for shipping if I don't know you. If there are multiple fabulous comments and I simply can't decide, I'll start making mix CDs or something. The songs won't necessarily be about pigs.

Olivia: She is, in the words of The Manolo, super fantastic.



I do love me some red shoes. My last pair of red Simple sneakers was bludgeoned to a pulp by my love. When packing up my things ten minutes after being dumped, I threw my hole-riddled shoes into the trash and never looked back. But I decided last week that it was time for another pair. A pair that won't let water in through the soles. And here they are:



Beautiful. I plan to wear them tomorrow with pride. I'll even avoid the wads of gum on the sidewalk.


I Have Succumbed


I used to mock the women who flounced past me in pointy shoes and perfectly applied makeup when I was still in my flannel pajama bottoms at noon and my lips hadn't seen color in two months. I still mock on occasion, but now with a growing sense of kinship. I wear lipstick these days. I own multiple pairs of red shoes. I shop for clothes more than once every two years. I have embraced girliness in all its glory. Betty Friedan would beat me down if she spied me in the grocery store.

Or perhaps not. Just because I own dresses doesn't mean I've become less lazy. My standard uniform is still Old Navy jeans, brown Docs and t-shirts of varying motifs. Today was Animal of Muppets fame. But I am not always slovenly. This site is dedicated to those rare occasions when the glitter come out, the wardrobe is plundered, the delicate hooves are shoved into tall red shoes, and the Moose looks fabulous.

You can be fabulous here, too. I won't tell anyone that you're really gazing glaze-eyed at your computer in those flannel pajama bottoms.


Alter Ego

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