I Played NYC Outfit Roulette!

Plus! Readers Slang it Up!! Rudy Giuliani Coffee!!!

Hello everyone,

Welcome to Issue #118 of CAFÉ ANNE!

So last week’s feature, in which I asked NYC young folks to share and explain their favorite slang, had readers trying to incorporate the new terms into their comments, with varying degrees of finesse.

“This is some fuckass typeshit,” wrote David P., creating a sort of slang word salad.

“These youngs are so clever, I'm glazing them,” said Phoebe in Brooklyn. “You cooked on this research, Anne!”

Eden used a new term in the slang story to comment on the other story in last week’s issue: “Trader Knows sounds so cool! Instant join—hope Ethan gets that munyun!”

The top comment, once again, was from Rob S. in Fort Greene. “As the parent of two teenagers, there is nothing I enjoy more than creeping them out by dropping some current slang into everyday conversations,” he wrote. “Bonus cringe points if I do it in front of their friends. Thanks for all the new ammunition!”

In other news, I was excited to learn that former NYC mayor Rudy Giuliani, who I thought was busy sorting out a number of legal issues, has launched a new line of specialty coffee. What?

It comes in “Rudy Bold,” “Rudy Decaf” and “Rudy Morning.” Discuss!

Also last week, fellow Substacker Amelia Wilson published a very nice Q&A with me. It’s the first of her new “Everyday Happiness” interview series. Please check it out here.

Finally, huge NYC street vendor banana shoutouts to new paid subscribers Alex G., Olivia B. and Penny W. (who kindly opted for the $100 founders option). Also, to Jim F. who bought a gift subscription for his wife Virginia, to Nina for sweet her Venmo donation and to Adelheid in Germany who sent a donation via PayPal for her sister’s birthday. Happy birthday Cornelia! All told, that’s enough $$$ for 1088 bananas! And this generous support, of course, keeps CAFÉ ANNE paywall-free for everyone else.

I am very excited for this week’s issue, of course. I’ve got an account of my latest personal experiment—asking a random thrift store clerk to choose me a random outfit and wearing it for (almost!) a week. Please enjoy.

Regards!

Anne

DEPT. OF PERSONAL EXPERIMENTATION

I Played NYC Outfit Roulette!

Illustration Credit: @Carolyn Yoo

I don't know how I came up with the idea, but it recently occurred to me—after years of wearing the exact same all-black "personal uniform" every day—that it might be fun to ask a random thrift store clerk to select me a random outfit and wear that for a week.

I'd gotten so used to wearing the same black skirt and shirt over and over (read my essay about it here), I'd started having actual nightmares about opening my closet door to discover a wardrobe of colorful clothes.

What would it feel like, I wondered, to totally give up control over what I wore—and by extension, how others perceive me?

Saturday

Last Saturday, over lunch, I plot a little adventure with my friend Michael. The plan: we'll go to the nearest Goodwill store in Downtown Brooklyn where I'll ask a sales clerk to choose me an outfit.

The rules:

1) I can’t specify any limitations or preferences.

2) Whatever the sales clerk selects, I have to buy it and wear it for the rest of the week—as long as it fits!

Goodwill, as most folks know, is a nonprofit chain of thrift stores selling donated used clothing to support its job training programs. The typical store offers a huge selection of garments ranging from office wear to prom dresses and sneakers.

Arriving at the store in Downtown Brooklyn that afternoon, I spot a dozen sales associates, busy hanging clothes on tightly packed racks.

The women’s section at the giant Goodwill in Downtown Brooklyn.

I approach the first clerk I see in the ladies section, who looks to be in his mid-twenties. Because he's dressed in the Goodwill uniform (all black, just like me!) I can't discern his style, other than to note the silver stud and bar piercings adorning his right ear.

"Excuse me," I say. "Could you choose an outfit for me?”

I expect him to decline, as Goodwill employees are mainly there to keep the store tidy and stocked—not serve as personal shoppers. But his face lights up. "Do you have something in mind? he says. "Maybe jeans or dress pants?"

"Well, I'll tell you the things I have coming up that I'd wear this outfit to," I say. "I teach a meditation class, and I have some friends coming over on Wednesday. I have a birthday party to go to, and I might need to do some interviews for work. So nothing too fancy, but nothing too informal. Other than that, I'm totally open—as long as it fits!"

"So I'd start with dress pants," he says. "We'll look for your size. I'd do something like this, maybe.”

When he selects a pair of black trousers from a nearby rack, my heart sinks. They look a lot like what I’m already wearing!  "You think plain black is best?" I say, trying to hide my disappointment.

"This is something you can just keep on putting on," he explains. "One day you could wear a green shirt with it, the next day you could do a blue. You see where I'm going with this?"

"Could you pick the shirt too?" I ask. Maybe the shirt will be interesting.

He guides me to the shirt section. There are thousands to choose from.

"It's spring, and you said everyday. So how bright do you want your top to be?" he asks. "You could go with a white top, but I feel that'd be too classy. So if you want to be everyday, I'd say a yellow, green—maybe a blue top."

"Whatever you pick!" I say.

"Not the green," he says, dismissing an entire rack of blouses.

"Why not green?"

"I dunno!" he says, and we laugh.

"I've never really picked out clothes for a woman before," he confides. "I kind of want to give you something that has a print on it. Since the pants is black, I kind of want the shirt to pop out more."

"Whatever you think would suit me best," I assure him.

"Then I want it be yellow, because you seem happy," he says. "I feel like yellow would be your color."

He has an inspiration and walks me to a new section of the floor. "This is our boutique area—the high-end stuff," he says.

It doesn't take him long to pull a blouse from the rack.

"What do you think about orange?" he says.

The garment he holds up is nothing short of amazing. The gauzy, stretchy, peach-colored polyester top has cap sleeves and three bands of sparkling rhinestones adorning each shoulder.

Peach polyester blouse—with exciting rhinestones bands on the shoulder!

"Sure, okay!" I say.

He considers the outfit. "I think I'd do the orange with beige pants," he says thoughtfully. We return to the trouser section and swap the black pants for beige.

Alas, his supervisor informs him that it’s time for his lunch break, so he can't stick around for the try-on session. I have to rely on Michael.

I don the shirt in the dressing room, look in the mirror and start laughing. I look like a different person. "Wow," I say. "Hmm."

I pull on the pants and open the dressing room door. Michael is waiting outside.

"That's a yes!" he says.

Emerging from the Goodwill dressing room in my usual black uniform (left) and my new outfit.

I turn to the fitting room attendant: "What do you think?"

"I like it!" she said. "I like the colors."

I take my new outfit to the register. Total cost for top and pants: $27.98. Such a deal!

"Now all I have to do is walk around in my outfit," I say.

"And see if people react differently to you," says Michael.

We make one final rule: I can't explain my new outfit to anyone. Even if they ask, I have to let them assume this is the new look I've chosen for myself.

SUNDAY

My new outfit makes its debut at the Mother's Day potluck lunch I helped organize at my meditation center. It creates a bigger stir than I'd expected.

"What the heck! You're not wearing black!" says the resident teacher, spotting me in the basement arranging a cookie platter. "My heart's palpitating! Is that peach?"

"Way to go with the color," a fellow member yelps when I bring the cookies upstairs. "Tangerine spring! I love it!"

"You look so bright and beautiful and so weird, because you're not wearing black," says a third. "You look very astral and outer space."

She starts calling me "Astral Anne."

It's fun, but the remarks go on and on:

"It's like you've been body-snatched!"

"What did you do with Anne?"

One reason I love wearing my all-black uniform is that it’s very boring and draws zero attention. I want people to notice me, not my outfit. Now, everyone is commenting on my clothes and wanting to know what’s up. I tell them I can’t say.

Some of us stay after the potluck for the afternoon study class. During the break, when we are discussing the teaching, I note how difficult situations can sometimes trigger people to behave like children.

"Is that what inspired your outfit?" asks a classmate.

Good one!

MONDAY

Day two starts easy. I'm working at home, and since it's a chilly outside, I can hide the new outfit under my usual black raincoat when I walk Minnie around the neighborhood.

But that evening, I'm back at the meditation center, where I teach a weekly "Buddhism for Beginners" class.

As soon as I take off my coat, the two class assistants burst out laughing. Fran takes my photo. "I can't stop looking at you," she says. "You know when you pass by a car accident and have to look at it? Your mind can't process what you're seeing."

One of the regular students arrives and gives me the once-over. "Was it time to do your laundry?" he asks.

I'm more concerned about the impression I'll make with folks who are new to the class. What if my outfit discredits me—and by association, the teachings?

To my surprise, the two new students both stay after class to thank me for the helpful talk and ask questions.

My goofy outfit didn't bother them one bit, it seems. Maybe the only person who'd scorn a teacher in peach polyester spangles is me!

Yes, it's true. I want my dharma instructors to dress like college professors. Flowing garments and beads are fine, but only if you're a legit monk or nun. Otherwise, it gives me the creeps! I am the world's most judgmental Buddhist.

TUESDAY

The weather prediction for day three is warm and sunny, which means I'll be hitting the streets of Brooklyn with my new outfit on full display. I am not happy.

It's true that I adopted my all-black uniform in an effort to simplify my life. But it's also what I'm most comfortable wearing. It's the outfit I feel best represents me—or at least the person I want others to think I am.

I want everyone to see me as smart and organized—but not a conformist. Creative but disciplined! Singular, but not a show-off.

The new outfit, however, just makes me look like a ditz. It'd be one thing if the sparkly top was paired with an equally nutball skirt, for example. Then I might pass for creative. But the outlandish shirt paired with the khakis says something more along the lines of "middle-aged secretary for a plumbing supply company trying to look glamorous."

Not that there's anything wrong with that. I love that lady! I just don't want to be mistaken for that lady.

When I take Minnie out for our afternoon walk, I feel a little self-conscious circling the neighborhood. And returning to my building, I try to sneak by the doorman and my neighbor Shelly, who are chatting in the lobby. No such luck.

"What the hell?" says Shelly. "What the hell?! "What the hell?!?!? Who ARE you?!?”

She seems so genuinely alarmed, I feel compelled to tell her about my Goodwill adventure and how I asked the clerk to choose my outfit.

"Well, he did a good job!" says Shelly.

She is very kind. Even better, after we note that it's colder today than expected, she offers to loan me a sweater.

I'm torn. If I need a sweater, shouldn't I go back to the Goodwill and ask a random clerk to choose one?  But John the doorman assures me that a sweater loaned by a neighbor is random enough. "I think that's fair," he says.

When I head back out, this time to hit the gym and the supermarket, my peach top is mostly hidden under Shelly's periwinkle blue cardigan.

Blue is my best color. And it's a very nice sweater! But paired with the khakis, I now look like an outtake from the Lands’ End catalogue. In short, I couldn't look less like a New Yorker.

Headed to the gym in Shelly’s blue cardigan.

In NYC, if you don’t look rich, professional, stylish or artsy, you're at least supposed to look tough. I look none of the above. Walking to the gym, I fear I'll be arrested by the fashion police and deported to New Jersey.

I go unmolested, but at both the gym and the supermarket, the normally gregarious employees seem less friendly than usual. The Trader Joe's cashier doesn't even ask how my day is going. Coincidence? I blame it on the fact that I'm presenting as a total Karen rather than a fellow New Yorker.

WEDNESDAY

Day four offers an unexpected reprieve. Doing the laundry, I discover, reading the care tags, that I can't throw the new garments in the dryer. I have wear my uniform while they line-dry. Hurrah!  

This also gives me time to consider my dilemma, which I share that afternoon over coffee with my pal Caitlin who visiting from LA: I have no way of knowing whether the strangers I meet in my new outfit are treating me differently than they would if I were dressed in my usual all-black uniform.

Caitlin, a very clever lady, has a great idea. She suggests I go to a wine store dressed in my new get-up, and ask for recommendation. Then I could return wearing my all-black uniform and ask for a second suggestion. How will my outfit affect the sales person’s advice?

I don't drink, but I do read a ton, so we decide I'll try this experiment at two bookstores in my neighborhood—the big chain and the little independent shop.

Later that day, I stop by the indy bookstore in my all-black uniform. No need to invent a fake scenario—I just tell the truth. I'm looking for a novel to read!

When the clerk asks my preferences, I tell her the facts—I'm almost finished with Texas—James Michener's wonderful 1,500-page novel based on 500 years of the state's bizarre history. I also tell her that I recently enjoyed Rebecca Makkai's fun-but-not-dumb literary thriller, I Have Some Questions for You.

"I'm totally wide open," I add.

The clerk's first pick? Big Swiss by Jen Beagin.

"It's really funny and a blast to read,” she says.

The blurb on the cover: "A fantastic, weird-as-hell, super funny novel."

I leave with Big Swiss in my bag.

Ten minutes later, I'm at the big chain bookstore, making the same request.

"That's a beast!" the clerk says, when tell her I'm reading Michener.

She asks a few more questions—do I like dystopian fiction? No, but we discuss some our favorite novels, and she compliments me on my varied taste. "Do you work in books?" she wants to know.

We head to the fiction section. "Based on your sense of humor, I'd suggest Big Swiss," she says, grabbing the title. "It's very dark, and comic too! Very witty and funny."

"Holy cow!" I say. "I was just at another bookstore and they recommended the same thing, and I bought it!"

I’d already read (and enjoyed) another of her suggestions, National Book Award Finalist Pachinko by Min Jin Lee, so I go with her third choice, The Power of the Dog, by Thomas Savage. "Thomas Savage was at the same time as Steinbeck, but never got the same acclaim," she tells me. "I read East of Eden right after this, and I thought he and Steinbeck compared incredibly."

I love that she assumes I've read East of Eden, which is not only Steinbeck's best novel (IMHO) but not the Steinbeck novel everyone is assigned to read in high school. Respect!

THURSDAY

On day five, I don the peach spangles and khakis and hit the same two bookstores again. Thankfully, both have a different clerk working behind the counter.

I stop by the chain store first. When I ask for a recommendation—making sure to include my schpiel about reading Michener and Makkai—she takes me straight to the new paperbacks table. "Anything on this table would be good for you," she says.

"All of them!" I say. "Wow!" There must be 100 titles on the table.

She takes pity on me and selects Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors.

I read the blurb on the cover: "A debut novel of love and privilege that's made for TV!"

“Looks like fun!” I say.

I later read the description on the back: "Twenty-four-year-old British painter Cleo has escaped from England to New York and is still finding her place in the sleepless city when, a few months before her student visa ends, she meets Frank. Frank is twenty years older and a self-made success, and his life is full of the excesses Cleo lacks..."

Last stop, still in my peach-and-khaki getup: back to the indy book store.

This time, when I ask the clerk to suggest a novel, she takes me straight to the bestsellers section. "The most popular thing right now is going to be this,” she says, selecting a title.

She didn't even ask what I like to read!

When I interrupt to tell her I’ve been reading Michener and Makkai, she escorts me to a table of popular fiction paperbacks.

"This is a book I couldn't put down," she says.

It's The Quiet Tenant by Clémence Michallon: "A pulse-pounding psychological thriller about a serial killer narrated by those closest to him. His 13-year-old daughter, his girlfriend—and the one victim he has spared."

"Is it a horror novel?" I ask, considering the "scary" font on the cover.

Another suggestion: Angie Kim's Happiness Falls—a top pick from both Oprah and People magazine.

Oy vey.

So that's where this tale ends. Reader, I could not bring myself to wear the new outfit for a sixth day, even for the sake of science. I'm going to donate it back to Goodwill, where I am sure some shopper will discover the rhinestone confection and fall in love for real.

I have, of course, spent a lot of time reflecting  on the past week’s experience, and what it all means, and here is my conclusion: I LOVE MY UNIFORM I LOVE MY UNIFOM I LOVE MY UNIFORM!!!!!!!

That doesn't mean I'm closed to change, however. In fact, I just got a package in the mail containing my new uniform for summer 2024: six identical black v-neck sleeveless dresses with pockets. They’re from Lands' End, by the way—but that can be our secret.

CAFÉ ANNE is published every Monday by Brooklyn journalist Anne Kadet. If you’re enjoying the newsletter, please consider supporting it with a paid subscription ($5 a month or $50 a year). I’ll send you a surprise in the mail!