Ginny Aiken: Priced to Move

What was she thinking?

“If you like it so much,” I tell her, “buy yourself a lamp base and stick it on top. It’s not going on me.”

“But it’s the perfect dress for your launch show, sugarplum. See how the lights make it glow? And retro’s back in style.” I look again at the shiny pink satin, extreme Audrey Hep-burn shirtwaist with the bouffant skirt. There’s enough reflective fabric here to turn me into the world’s tallest, crinkliest, pinkest lamp. Let me backtrack. Ms. Hepburn wouldn’t have been caught dead in this thing. “Not this kind of retro.”

“But pink’s wonderful for a woman’s complexion.”

This shade of pink doesn’t work for anyone—except maybe Miss Piggy. And I’m not that short.

By three o’clock, I dig in my heels. Enough is enough. “I’m not wearing pink! Would you buy diamonds from a Charlie-Brown’s-little-girl-with-red-hair lampshade? News flash! I’m not in third grade anymore. And pink’s toxic for redheads. No way.”

Aunt Weeby’s no pushover. “But it’s such a happy color, sugarplum.”

Miss Mona clears her throat. “I told you she should stick to cool colors like the greens, blues, and purples rather than your pink.”

Aunt Weeby crosses her arms. “ Everyone wears blue, green, and purple. We want her to stand out.”

“Oh, she’ll stand out in pink all right. I’m just not sure I want a Pepto bottle look-alike to try and sell my gems.”

After a couple more go-rounds of this, I’m ready to offer them—and their pink monstrosity—to the first pasty troll I find. With two index fingers in the corners of my mouth, I whistle. Life comes to a standstill in our little corner of suburban Louisville.

A girl could get used to this kind of power.

“Here’s a novel idea, ladies. I choose what I’m going to wear. And how about I stick to neutrals so viewers can focus on the gems and jewels?”

Amazing how brilliant my two geriatric fashionistas suddenly find me—about the neutrals, that is. They still don’t trust me with my on-screen wardrobe, and nix my solo shopping spree.

Know what I find out? Louisville’s got some primo shopping going on.

The next day, I do like a homing pigeon and hit Ann Taylor for a fab black floral jacquard jacket and pencil skirt, a caramel knit wrap sweater, and black wool pants. One day later, at Macy’s I pick up a yummy BCBG dark green wool jersey dress with a cummerbund of the same fabric, a V-neck, and buttons all the way down the front.

Finally, after a twenty-four-hour hiatus from our extreme shopping safari, we hit the mother lode. Miss Mona drags me into a small, exclusive boutique—think Marc Jacobs, Donna Karan, Monique L’Huilhier, and a bunch of English and Italian design stars too. Suzi, the owner, finds me a Diane Von Furstenberg silk wrap dress, then leads me straight to the racks of killer shoes.

But by the time I get there, exhaustion zaps me. Try to do all I’ve done the past few weeks, then add helping Aunt Weeby clump around with that massive cast. It feels as though it weighs as much as she does. And she’s not above playing on my sympathies to get her way when I dare suggest an extended break.

“Oh no, sugarplum,” she says. “We’re not done. Everything has to be near perfect. It’s all because I love you.”

I can almost hear the violin strings in the background, but what can I say? It is Aunt Weeby we’re talking about here. You know I’d do just about anything for her, even cut off my nose . . . you finish the cliché.

Let’s face it, anyone can tell I’m not myself when I balk at shoe shopping. I’m so all about shoes. But get real. Who’s going to see my shoes behind the host’s desk? I could do my shows in— shudder —Birkenstocks, and no one would know the difference.

And while I’m at the point where I’d rather wrap myself in my five-hundred-thread-count linens than shop, and the geriatric fashionistas give me no vote on the colors or styles,

I do fall in love with the shoes they choose for me. I score a pair of dark green velvet Stella McCartneys, some Manolo Blahnik beige patent leather Mary Janes, and a pair of Stuart Weitzman Kiss black kid leather pumps.

The best part of the shopping frenzy? Miss Mona insists on charging it to the network’s American Express card. I usually hit either Marshall’s or Filene’s Basement for my designer fix, so the number of zeros on the bills leave me gasping.

Then, bright and early the next morning, they drag me back to the studio. Just shoot me.

Miss Mona’s camera people subject me to multiple screen tests, makeup makeovers, and manicures. If the extreme shopping hadn’t worn me out, I might’ve enjoyed the beautifying spree—I do have my well-developed girly-girl side.

On the other hand, I do get to plan my shows, to choose gemstones, jewelry pieces, and diamond semi-mounts for shoppers to mix-and-match according to their individual taste. I even get to choose my backdrops, which is too cool.

It’s all about the gems, right?

Hah! Not by Aunt Weeby’s reckoning.

“There’s millions a’ single men out there, sugarplum,” she says on the way home after the remake Andie dog-and-pony show. “You have to look good. You never know when you’ll catch one’s eye.”

I did tell you she’s nuts. “On a women’s shopping channel?”

“Their mothers shop, don’t they?”

Oh goody. “If these men are still at home watching Mommy’s shows, then, trust me, I don’t want ’em.”

“So, there you have it, sugarplum! You’re plumb too picky for your own good.”

“Discriminating. I’m sure if God wants me to marry, he has a great guy out there for me.” I hope.

“Ah . . . so you’re waiting for the perfect hottie.”

“Yuck! I hate that word. It’s tacky. And I’m so not looking, or waiting, for a guy, any guy.”

No matter what I tell her, she can’t believe I’m not the rosy-glowed romantic she is. Maybe I am, but would rather wait for my Prince Charming than stalk him down. But don’t you dare tell her.

Then again, I’m not the driven executive Miss Mona has become, either. Who’d a thunk? Once upon a time these two were just small-town matrons with a weird thing for flea markets. Now one’s the female Ted Turner of cable commerce, and the other one? I’m not sure what Aunt Weeby’s really up to these days.

At least I get to work with nice people. There’s Allison, my makeup artist. She knows her business, and can erase under-eye circles and create cheekbones where the Lord forgot to put any. But when it comes to me, the dangerous duo fights to hijack her color choice every time—toward the pink spectrum, you understand.

Then there’s Julie Tuttle, Miss Mona’s retired military rent-a-cop for the vault. She’s the proud mama of twin girls. Every time I go check out the product, she talks endlessly about those sweeties and their daddy, her eyes full of stars. I’m jealous. And the owner of a ticking biological clock. Forgive me, Father.

The other hosts—Tanya, Marcie, Wendy, Karen, Danni, and Rosemarie—are okay, but usually too busy to pay much attention to me. Well, all of them except Danni Sutherland.

The dainty blonde has an Alaska-sized chip on her petite shoulder. The moment Miss Mona heard I was coming home, she yanked Danni from the weekly jewelry and gemstone show and stuck her with a couple more underwear—er . . . lingerie shows.

Eeuww! Can’t say I blame her. Tell me, would you like to look into a camera and tell the whole, wide world how much you loooove your underwear and why?

Nuh-uh. Not me.

Which makes me wonder. What kind of woman buys bras and panties off a TV screen while the whole world watches? Beats me, but there must be gaggles of them out there, since the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network sells truckloads of the frilly, stretchy, cottony, slimming, or colorful things.