Friday, February 15, 2013

Day 44 - I Ain't No Holla-ster Girl (is that song in your head now?).

I've long been intrigued by Hollister.  Back when it was only in a few malls, it was really a unique experience to shop there, and you got the sense that you've stumbled into a secret passageway from the board game Clue. How did this surf shack suddenly appear mere steps away from the Stride Rite store? From the front porch with the surf magazines strewn about, to the wood floors and casually arranged merchandise, shopping in Hollister is like traipsing through the Malibu summer cottage for a latter-day Frankie and Annette.  You can practically taste the salt water and feel the sand residue in your shoes. And who doesn't want to feel like a surfer...even (or especially) when one is right next to Auntie Anne's in a Midwestern mall. I loved being transported to another state, if, for no other reason, than to escape the overly aggressive skin cream salesman in the nearby kiosk.

Usually, I would peruse the t-shirts and proclaim that I don't really like to wear so many logos (when the truth was probably that the fabric was a little thin or the cut of the neck was an impossibly deep V).  But, of course, I always wanted to leave the store knowing that I could bring a little bit of the surf shack back to my house (if not the male models on the bags...are they even real?).  Unfortunately, I haven't been back to Hollister since the tragic incident of which I found myself thinking, simultaneously, "This music is too loud," and "It's so dark in here that I can't even see what size I'm looking for." Shortly after that, I was "ma'am-ed."  I haven't returned.

So when you find what you perceive to be reasonable clothes from Hollister (reasonable in that they are somewhat cool, but aren't plastered with logos and won't make you look like you are a contestant on one of those MTV Real World vs Road Rules Challenge shows), naturally, you snatch them up.  I believe that this purchase contained two sweaters and some (long since lost) winter accessories like a severely marked down scarf and a pair of fingerless gloves (what's. the. point?).

I bet you think I'm going to keep this sweater, don't you?

Not snowflakes...what shapes do you see in these clouds?

If the acrylic doesn't warm you up, the hood sure will.

Looking at these pictures, I can definitely see how people get fooled by online profiles on dating sites. This sweater looks hearty and substantial...two great adjectives for a game of Mad Libs, but neither of which apply here.  It was relatively thick, but didn't have a lot of "give" to it, nor did it have the comfortable fit of a chunky winter cardigan (dude, when you're just throwing something on after a day on the waves, you don't worry too much about styling).  I know that I wear this sweater quite often (translation: once a year), but I think that says more about my desire to represent the surf culture at large than any kind of affinity towards this sweater.  The pattern is cute, and, were it in a soft and cozy knit, this would be a hang ten.  Right now, it's more of a wipe out.

My rating:  Oliver in Kate Hudson's brother...Goldie's son?  He with the impossible dimples and the winning smile? Okay, now you're with me. Because of where he's from and who his parents are, you really want to like him.  He always seems to be the best looking specimen on the screen in a sub par television series, and there certainly is something very attractive about the pattern on this cardigan. His Hollywood good looks and easy-going persona promise a day of surfing, snowboarding, or some vocation that is equally embarrassing for most Midwesterners. But this sweater's heritage from a surf-inspired store does not make up for a day of tugging and adjusting, and really isn't worth sitting through an entire episode of that sitcom with David Spade (I hate to mention him again...but I just cannot understand how that show is still on the air). Plus, it just is not as cozy as it looks. There is hope for Oliver Hudson (he's a lot cuter than most of the stiffs that they use in those paint-by-numbers romantic movies around the holidays), but I fear that my closet cannot provide him with amnesty any longer. Maybe he'll find a new home where they let him play that SoCal music as loudly as he wants.

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