Sunglasses and Wiener Dogs

Over the weekend, I almost bought a dachshund puppy from a street vendor. And no, it wasn’t a hot-dog vendor (although, in essence…).

It all started when I walked by a sunglass stand on Broadway, on the Upper West Side. I always get sucked into the sunglasses and fake handbags they sell on the street in New York. Some of the vendors are fixtures of the neighborhood, and this guy is one of them. He’s one of the rare sunglass vendors who’s actually an American, English-speaking white guy. If you know the area, you might even know who I’m talking about.

The guy with the dachshund.

What I like about this vendor is that he presents his wares as if, instead of discount sunglasses, he were the proprietor of an art gallery dealing in some unbelievably rare and exquisite art.

"Can I show you something in a particular style?" he asks. I wasn't sure what to say. It was like being in one of those SoHo galleries where you mistake the latest Jeff Koons installation for a coat rack. Just because it looks exactly like a coat rack, and is even entitled "Coat Rack 1" (don't get me started on "Toilet 3" ...).

At first, I was drawn to a pair of black sunglasses with round, oversized frames. On the rack, they seemed oh-so Jackie O., or possibly Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour. On me, alas, the effect was more Jeff Goldblum in The Fly. I looked like a giant mosquito.

In addition to the $10 sunglasses, he also has a cache of “the real thing,” which he keeps in a wood-and-glass case. It’s all somehow very Indiana Jones.

“Got something here I think you just … might….like…,” he said, pulling out a glass box under his cart. He opened up the box and a bright light, as if emanating from deep inside the box, seemed to illuminate his face. In the soundtrack of my imagination, a chorus burst into a rousing rendition of Carmina Burana.

They were the most beautiful sunglasses I’d ever seen.

“Only $40. But (leaning closer) they’re real. Calvin Klein. And – (lowering his voice, looking around to make sure nobody overheard) – I’ll throw in a sunglass case. For free.”

They were dazzling. The Platonic Form of sunglasses. I slipped them on. They looked great. Not only that, they felt great. Solid and light; didn’t pinch at all, the way cheap sunglasses do.

Maybe they’re hot? I wondered, again, without caring.

Reaching for my wallet, I stopped. If I came home with yet another pair of sunglasses – something that, by any definition, I do not actually “need” – there would be a 99.97% chance of Paul making fun of me (assuming he did not buy a new video game that day).

Paul and I have this thing. It’s very Lucy & Ricky Ricardo, like when she would buy too many hats. “Now, Loooouuuuuu-ceeeeeeeee!”

The thing is, I know that in this instance, Paul would be right (but for god’s sake, don’t tell him I said so). Yes, I do have a job, and yes, I can afford to buy a pair of sunglasses and even the occasional tube of $42 lip plumper. But it’s probably not a good idea to do so every day.

”See, if we spend every dime we make on frivolous crap, we won’t be able to have save up for other, more important frivolous crap,” Paul contends, “like vacations to Europe, and eating at nice restaurants, and … living indoors.”

Paul and his “reality” crap. It’s such a buzz-kill.

“But … but … it’s an infinitely abundant universe!” I say, quoting from one of the many self-help books that I purchase every month. Ironically, these are part of the reason I’m always broke.

And I did just get a check for the freelance writing I did for the politicians (don’t ask)…

The thing is, every time I get any extra money, I use it to justify at least 5 times as much in expenditures. If only I could make actual money stretch so far. For instance, a single check for $200 justifies: a) $200 haircut b) $200 for new summer wardrobe (okay, new shirt) c) $115 for ridiculous face cream, and … d) for just a few hours work, I could earn … my very own dachshund puppy!

Leaving the sunglasses on, I contemplate my Frivolous Purchase du jour. Okay, du moment. Not an hour before, I’d purchased that gauzy, sequined “beach sarong,” which I might actually wear someday, if I ever need a light wrap to attend a semi-formal soiree on a beach in Tahiti.

I ask if I can pet the dog, whom we’ll call “Millie” (dachshunds are very private, not to mention litigious, dogs). She’s awfully sweet, and looks up at me with those big black wiener-dog eyes.

It occurs to me that this is all starting to sound dangerously phallic; to paraphrase Freud, might I remind you that sometimes a wiener dog is just a wiener dog?

“Do they make good pets?" I ask Sunglass Dude. "Dachshunds, I mean?”

“Why? You want a puppy?” he asks, again, looking around to ensure our privacy. “’I’ll make you a good deal.”

“Huh?”

“Millie here just had puppies. 14 weeks old.” Sunglass Dude whips out his phone and shows me the pictures. They’re pretty friggin’ adorable. Mostly, the shots also feature S.D., a somewhat tough-looking guy in a muscle shirt exposing gratuitous arm tattoos, grinning cheek-to-cheek with hamster-sized puppies.

For a minute, I considered forgetting about the sunglasses and just getting a puppy, instead. Maybe they come with a free sunglass case?

“Yeah, but ... I don’t have a big apartment,” I confess. “And I have two cats. And a husband.” A husband who would probably be slightly annoyed if I wasted $40 on some possibly-hot sunglasses, I thought but didn’t say, much less a hot dog.

Besides, I’ve seen the cautionary videos. This is how it all starts. First, you buy a weiner dog from some guy on a street corner. Then, it’s just a slippery slope until you’re in the South Bronx trolling for a baby Kodiak bear.

So I didn’t buy the cool sunglasses. Or a puppy. As a consolation prize, I did get the $10 pair of sunglasses. They really do look better on than off. Still, every time I put them on (they pinch slightly) I will think of those Calvin Klein sunglasses. The fake ones, I fear, will always savor of anti-climax. And wiener dogs.

Ahem. Maybe I should rephrase that …