The Joy of Spending
The designers of Juicy Couture teach Joel Stein a few things about shopping—especially when price is no object
By Joel Stein

Fall 2004 Style & Design
I hate shopping. If I'm going to drive somewhere, sort through inventory and do math in my head, I'm going to get paid for it. I have no idea why so many women are into it, much as I can't figure out why they pay people to massage them and not have sex. So I got two expert shoppers, Gela Nash-Taylor and Pamela Skaist-Levy, owners of Juicy Couture, to spend a full day with me in L.A. shopping. Which was fine with me, since TIME was paying me to do it.

Gela and Pam show up at my hotel in a chauffeur-driven black Ford Excursion. They have matching Juicy sweat-suit dresses, matching Hermes handbags, matching Treo phones, nearly identical Manolo Blahnik shoes that make matching clicks as they walk, identical square engagement rings the size of Hungry Man dinners and the same Cosabella underwear, for which I have to take their word because I keep getting distracted by something else when they get in and out of the Excursion in their tiny outfits. Gela, the brunet, is completely in orange, and Pam, the blond, in white. By the end of the day, I realize, there will be a rumor floating around Los Angeles that I am a pimp.

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My first stop with the Fluffians, as they called themselves, is Book Soup. Taking a reporter to a bookstore on a shopping spree seems a lot like writing Nova in your Nielsen logbook. But they insist they love to buy books, and in 20 minutes of panther-like movements around the store, they indeed spend $352.77. But the most impressive part of the shopping—more than their speed or the way they use Amazon as a verb, or that they buy two of David Sedaris' books and then one of Jonathan Ames' because I point out that "he's funny too"—is Pam's Amex signature: a single, quarter-second loop. These are professional shoppers. Not only do I have a lot to learn, but the dual Sedaris purchase makes me realize I need to write a book.

Next they take me to Fred Segal, which sells the Juicy Couture line, including its new swimwear and handbags that are specially designed for shopping, with pockets for a phone (labeled HELLO?), keys (OPEN), lipstick (JUICY KISS!!) and a wallet (SHOP!). I cannot believe it has taken until now for Mattel to consider making Gela and Pam Barbies.

We head upstairs to buy a Libertine shirt for Gela's husband, Duran Duran bassist John Taylor. I spot a houndstooth coat with horse prints that I think would look particularly good while performing Wild Boys. The guy working at the store thinks it's too small for Taylor, so Gela passes on it. She does, however, compliment my eye—the first time that has ever happened when I wasn't playing softball.

Back in the car, after a light lunch, I bring up the jacket again, thinking no one from Duran Duran can really be all that big. Gela decides to call the store and buy it. It doesn't take much to get these people to spend money. I really wish I had written that book.

I warn Gela to check the price on the coat, given that the shirt was $450. After buying it, she says, "I forgot to ask how much it is." She starts to redial, and seeing the sad look in her eyes, I tell her she doesn't have to. "Good," she says, hanging up. "It feels so uncool to ask."

We head to Brenda Anton, a furniture store that, conveniently, doesn't even have prices. Gela picks up a set of green dishes and "art glass" that I'm pretty sure was just a display. Meanwhile, Pam is having a discussion with Brenda that the Fluffians decide I can't be privy to. I feel like I'm hanging out with the cool, smart, attractive, rich girls in high school, only they occasionally have to answer my questions.

"Can I tell, or is it too horrif?" asks Pam.

"She bought a piece of furniture, and she hasn't bought a house yet," Gela says. "Now she needs a house that will fit the hutch."

It turns out, Pam has done this before.

"What happened?" Gela asks.

"Some of the furniture had to be replaced," Pam admits.

The best part—the part that makes me realize I have no business stepping into a mall ever again—is that Pam never asked how much the giant French antique hutch she just bought costs. I am starting to understand how women make this shopping thing more exciting. They turn it into gambling.

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