.:: The StrongBrain Collective ::.

Let me preface this shopping story by saying that I have no concept of style, at least chic style. If societal judgementology would allow, I would wear jeans, silly t-shirts and thongs every day, to work, to every bar, to every club, etc. But, as it is, most of the bars and clubs require things like black shoes and, at the very least, a pair of jeans that have been washed within the previous 24 months. And since I really have no inkling on what is where and where is what with regards to black shoes, clean jeans, and everything else fashion-oriented, I must involve my sister.

She's a freak. She reminds me of the Terminator when she goes shopping. You know the scenes in those films when you see the world through the Terminator's eyes? And there's a million different calculations happening at once on the screen, plus a very deft scan mode? That's my sister. That's Tiffany. She'll amble two steps into a store, take a ponderous, scanning look from left to right and know exactly what the establishment has to offer. Once, I even saw her close her eyes, lift up her nose, take a deliberate breath of air through her nostrils and immediately acquire all the information she needed, as if images of everything the store could provide had osmosed into her brain. As her companion, by the time I had figured out which gender this store was appropriate for, she was already gone, heading for her next target.

She's the frickin' Shopinator. And I love her for it. Save for her expertise, I'd still be like I was, say about 5 years ago, when I tried to get into a club in NYC wearing stained khakis, a plaid shirt and some skater shoes. The bouncer looked me up and down and thought I was kidding, as if someone better dressed would emerge from this tall, lanky frame as the punchline to the joke.

But I have to plead ignorance. I had no idea style/fashion was so necessary or that it even existed. I just wore what was comfortable. My sister taught me different, because as a girl, she knew how important pretty clothes can be to a single guy, as I am (wink wink ladies!). Not only does she treat me like Alicia Silverstone treated that girl from Clueless ("Ooooh project!"), she has recently taken to asking if I hooked up the previous night. Because if I had, she'd undoubtedly take responsibility for her brother getting laid, obviously due entirely to his revamped wardrobe!

But you know what? That's okay. She's allowed, because she tells me what to wear. And compliments abound when I wear her suggested regalia.

The clothing items that I personally buy are so-called "safe purchases", e.g. tennis shoes, boxer shorts and TJ Maxx t-shirts. The rest of my wardrobe consists of Christmas/birthday presents, 85% courtesy of my sister's stubborn willingness to keep me stylish. I literally spend hours -- yes hours -- deliberating with my strongbrain on how feasible it is to fly Tiffany out to San Diego under the auspice of sibling love, but in reality so that she can show and tell me what shirt to buy for a date or party. I've even got my list ready: two shirts, casual. Two shirts, club-like or fancy. One pair cordouroys. One pair khakis. One pair grey dress pants. One belt, casual.

You might, foolishly, consider the option of me attempting manhood and buying these items on my own. Sorry, can't do it, at least in this regard. I know something about people -- they're nice, they pride themselves on excessive tact, and will utilize the severest vagaries of language to make a suggestion that cuffs at the bottom of pants are so 1993, or that the pants you bought make it appear as if you have no ass, or that it appears as if your thighs and lower back are best friends, or that that piece of plywood over there has more of an ass than you. I have neither the time nor the energy to sift through these ambiguous hints in order to uncover the truth. So, I just wait for my sister, who'll tell me straight up.

I once bought a pair of casual, black skater shoes for work. One night, when asking her what shoes were appropriate for this place at which we were soon to heavily imbibe, I brought out these shoes. She picked them up, looked at them, and literally dropped them like they held the plague, barking "NEXT!" I never wore those shoes again. In fact, I think I gave them to charity.

I'm a rather confident fellow in many regards, but when it comes to clothing, my self-esteem rests uneasily on my sister's parochial opinions of fashion. But she hasn't steered me wrong yet, so I keep relying on her around Christmas time, when we can spend time together, first of all, and second of all so that she can buy me clothes for the coming year!

This Christmas, Tiffany and I went shopping together, just like we've always done. But this year, I paid acute attention to the actual act of shopping with her.

Our first stop was Kohl's, a store that makes me all tingly in special places because they actually house stocks of XL/T shirts and 38-length in-seamed pants, rather than requiring these clothes be ordered online. Their owner must be tall or something. I'd like to shake his hand for his understanding. I wonder how many times he's been asked if he plays basketball.

As we passed through the doors, I immediately watched Tiffany absorb her surroundings with the confidence of a cat stalking its unaware mousy prey. She was a shopping genius, like an idiot savant that could calculate ridiculous mathematical equations quicker than a calculator but couldn't grasp the practice of tying one's own shoes, having instead to stick with velcro. She could tie shoes, thankfully, but for her, the "idiot" in idiot savant is being a typical blond and saying and doing typical blond-girl things. All forgivable because of the necessity of the "savant" aspect of her.

At Kohl's, we bought two shirts. I didn't like them. They were bland, ugly, and both of them were exactly the same, just a different solid color: one dark green and the other maroon (purple? ach!) But she said that I needed "staples" and that they're casual. Plus they were $30 shirts at 60% off. So, basically, Tiffany said, "Pull your head outta your ass. It'd be crime not to buy them!" Shopping savants search out the best deals.

After reluctantly agreeing with her rendition of the "staple" theory, she said with an odd mixture of sarcasm and austerity, "Okay, let's carry on". She turned immediately on her heel to head towards the checkout girl. Shopping savants keep a solid pace.

On the way out, still feeling a little wound in my pride for having agreed to purchase two shirts I didn't find terribly tantalizing, I stopped to point out a line of designer shirts that I considered pretty cool. But when I said as much, Tiffany paused, took one slow, deliberate glance at the style and then looked back at me with such a strong look of pity dripping from her indignant eyes. How could I be so damned ballsy as to suggest anyone in their sane mind would don such apparrel? I thought she was going to disown me as a brother on the spot, so I apologized immediately, fearing that if I kept yapping, onlookers would be calling 911 to report a fratricide in progress.

Head hung low like a penitent puppy dog, I thought that maybe I would come to appreciate the shirts I just dropped cashmoney on. I remember concurrently despising and admiring my sister, like hearing a much more successful recovering alcoholic describe their success with sobriety. An interesting feeling, considering that we had been shopping for maybe 15 minutes, and hadn't even hit the mall yet.

The mall: Tiffany's paradise, my personal purgatory, Dante's ironic punishment division. Too many fucking stores with haughty names I can't even pronounce.

I had to endure two "Dear God, pull yourself together"s when I asked "Is this cool?" and one "Jay, if you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all" after I just happened to mention in passing that she might like this particular skirt as it seemed a pretty decent thing to wear for New Year's Eve. Once she just nonchalantly said, "Shhhhhhh...." and continued sifting through clothes, as if I wasn't even there!

I ended up buying a $100 pair of black shoes (50% off. A crime!) that was one of those newfangled styles that didn't have any laces. Plus the toe wasn't rounded, it was square! It didn't seem to follow the rules of elementary physics, plus they looked like I was wearing strength shoes from my youth! But, nevertheless, Tiffany fixated a furious look and stated in a deliberate tone, almost like a robot, "Jay, those look sharp. They're in style!"

A robot like Terminator. "Jason, purchase these items or you will perish."

Did I put my foot down, you ask, and walk out of the store without the shoes? Well, at least the foot that didn't have the sock on it with the holes in the toe that amused the sales lady and embarrassed my sister? No, I did not put my foot down. Instead, I slung down more cashmoney to purchase these shoes. Shopping savants are rather persuasive.

We bought a few more things, mostly things that weren't even on my original list but she said that they were necessary.

Well. you get the point. The Shopinator strikes again, but not in a negative way. As a result, I'm stylish, chic, happenin'. And, as my friend Christian Dick likes to say, I can "slay ladies" with my new clothes!

As one of my notorious and apparently extremely unpopular asides, there was this one time that I started looking at clothes at the Gap, fingering through some pants I thought were pretty decent, when Tiffany said quietly out of the corner of her pursed mouth, "Jay, those are women's pants." Realizing there was no point in being defensive and saying, "I knew that", when I was nearly about to look for that particular style in my size, I just stood up straight and looked dead ahead. I was obviously reeking with the stink of uselessness in something that directly involved me -- my wardrobe -- like a doomed man walking to the firing squad, accepting his fate because he could do naught to change it. I can't alter my shopping ineptitude. It's in the genes, I blame my father. As a result, forgoing any attempt at finding something for myself, I reattached the imaginary leash around my neck and gave the reigns back to Tiffany, to direct me where she deemed. Shopping savants are natural born leaders.

The single-purpose drive of the Terminator made it a ruthless killing machine. Subsitute "Tiffany for "the Terminator" and "shopping" for "killing" and you have 1/2 the reason I enjoy going home for Christmas. This killing, I mean shopping, efficiency makes me so stylish for the ensuing year! It's awesome!

p.s. for anyone who, upon reading this story, wonders where they too can get a sister who does the same things for them, then look no further. After careful negotiations, Tiffany has agreed to prostitute her shopping savvy to anyone who can afford her services. Fifty dollars gets you an hour with the Shopinator! Hurry! Slots are filling fast!