misosouper, a shopping blog

Infinitely better than one of those goofy “tonight/not tonight” pillows.

You have my permission to hang it next to your bed.

If you like what you read, please subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting.

This gun-shaped remote control lets you make good on your promise to off Ryan Seacrest. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I confess that I don’t understand the logic of ninja socks, beyond the fact that they are designed to fit into ninja boots. But if they propel me through the spider walk to Ninja Warrior heaven, then I’ll rock them everyday.

*Note: also useful for wearing with flip-flops to tourist destinations.

Place this little bank next to your Das Kapital money box, and your shelf just might explode from the irony.

Yes, Karl Marx, a Das Kapital bank is being sold at Target.

To quote Whipple: “Irony is an insult in the form of a compliment.” Or something like that.

As long as you stay under the sheets, you’ll be OK.

Having a kid gives you the opportunity to reclaim certain primordial pleasures, chief among them Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, rubber ducks, and coloring books. Inspired by yesterday’s Everywhere Daily Candy, I present to you the ultimate in cheap fun: color your own Modern Art Masterpieces and Human Anatomy. Throw in a Classic Crayola 64-Pack and a bottle of Two Buck Chuck, and a hot Friday night (after the kids go to sleep, of course) is all yours for under $15. Staying inside the lines optional.

I’m categorizing this under Splurge-day Thursday because, while the price for this Hungarian baby bathtub isn’t outrageous, it remains, well, a Hungarian baby bathtub, with limited application beyond bathing Hungarian babies and icing summer drinks. Really, Hungarian baby bathtubs shouldn’t be more than $20, but apparently Garnet Hill didn’t get that memo. (Tangential note: How did Garnet Hill discover this stash of “vintage” bathtubs? Was J. Peterman somehow involved?)

Despite its limits, I still want one; the Hungarian baby bathtub reminds me of my best friend’s wedding, where we grabbed beers from a frosty rowboat on her deck, only this is the all-grown-up, now-we-drink-champagne version.

These luggage tags remind me of when my suitcase fell apart in Charles de Gaulle airport on my way home from Paris. Two months of smoky, wine-splotched clothes fell onto the pristine floor; the bag checker loaned me a roll of packing tape and a garbage bag, snickering while I scooped my sorry American stink off the ground. The story’s funny now, but it would have been funnier then with the “open with caution: dirty clothes inside” strapped to the handle.