Pez is no longer just that cheap toy with the stale candy you buy to keep the kids quiet in the supermarket. There are TV-show-character Pez, stuffed-animal Pez, automobile Pez, holiday Pez, mini-Pez and more. And at Froggie's, you can fill your Pez habit with Pez T-shirts, Pez magnets and Pez buttons, including a line of items sporting the phrase, "You're not famous until they put your head on a Pez dispenser." There's even a personal collection of Pez dispensers behind the counter.

The ladies know how important a good eyebrow waxing is and that some people are better at it than others. But after the first episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy ran, the hetero dudes realized that it's a good idea to get rid of the monobrow look. For $10, the good people at CSSS will give you a top-notch waxing without making you feel as though you're in some stuck-up Uptown spa. If you're raising an eyebrow at us, stop it. We know what's good for you. Go and have your hair ripped off and tell us how good it feels, how good you look.

Actually, "Best Pan-sexual Erotica (leather and gadgets)" would be a more accurate label for Shades of Grey, a fetishist's dream of a store even though it sacrifices snazzy décor in favor of clutter--the better to stock more stuff to titillate you with, my dear. Find racks and racks of sexy leather clothes--some vinyl, too--for men and women. The selection is the best, and custom leatherwork is available also. The store staff is friendly and more knowledgeable than we are about fetish-oriented apparati. We didn't realize, for example, that you could buy a gizmo that hooks to your shower head for full colonic cleansing and that cleanliness might not be your sole motivation. Shades of Grey has a good variety of body jewelry and is proud of its multisexual orientation. There's a small satellite store inside the Dallas Eagle, our city's highly regarded men's leather fetish bar off Inwood Road.

Our favorite Emeralds to Coconuts find is a dainty beaded bracelet. We liked it so much we went back for more to rebead into other objects. Each bead has a face painted on it, and, as in real life, each face is different and is supposed to reflect a different personality and emotion. Unlike real life, all of them are really pretty. Stupid superficial bracelets. But if you like your faces not so perfect, Emeralds to Coconuts also carries masks to hang on your wall. Next time you're accused of being two-faced, just say, "If you only knew."

Clothes confound us. We be husky, and it is not easy to find nice clothes that make a husky man look good, unless you pay ridiculous prices. Then a friend told us about Todd Shevlin, who, since 1995, has owned, in a gentle fashion, the fashion store known as Gently Owned Men's Consignery, in Far North Dallas. (He recently opened a second store in Oak Lawn.) We arrived in flip-flops and a Green Lantern T-shirt and left in a $500 pair of slacks that cost us $99. Then we realized why the rich always look so nice. (Fabric that makes our huge ass disappear is magic, and magic pants are worth every cent.) Gentle owner Shevlin says he offers "the finest in men's resale...all our stuff is less than 2 years old, and it's in great, excellent or mint condition." GOMC sells and buys everything but underwear and socks; it even carries new inventory at 30 to 50 percent off retail. They carry everything from Armani to Hugo Boss. (We nabbed a new-inventory, Italian-made suit for about $400.) If you want to sell your slick duds, all consignment contracts are 90-day deals; the sale is split 50-50. You can use your profits to buy some nice threads from Todd. See how that works?

Run by two Italian-American guys, third-generation owners; their mama makes the meatballs in the back. They make their own Italian sausage--hot, mild or how you like it. The wine selection is all Italian, all good and two bucks cheaper per bottle than the high-rent places. Every Italian condiment you can think of. People don't just come here from Plano. They don't just come here from Tyler. They come from as far away as Oklahoma City! You know why? Because they're New Yorkers, from Brooklyn and the Bronx, in particular, and they are starved for a grubby little joint with worn-out fixtures, homeless people out front and really, really great Italian groceries.

When you hit your early to mid-30s, there are constant reminders that you're not 21 anymore. These include, but are not limited to, your waistline, your hairline, your preference for talk radio, your tendency to be offended by behavior you used to find hysterical and your reluctance to order more than six tacos at Taco Bell. But if you really want to feel AARP-ed out, creaky-kneed and cantankerously old, try shopping at Urban Outfitters. First of all, the sizes are all wrong. If you wear a medium, buy an XL there, because the kids are way skinny these days and like their clothes form-fitting. Also, be prepared to be mocked if you try to update your wardrobe and, say, you buy the male Capri pants because they look hip to you. Your poker buddies will not understand. Third, just take a look around. Not one of the girls and boys you see plunking down platinum cards looks older than 14, yet every one of them could buy and sell your ass.

Western Warehouse has everything you'd expect: boots, hats, belts and belt buckles, jeans, boots, those collarless shirts Garth Brooks favored for a while and the loud, starched-stiff shirts loved by Brooks and Dunn. But it also has tiny Wranglers for mini-cowboys and cowgirls, tank tops and slogan tees for teen rodeo queens, Western-style tuxedo jackets and those polyester pants the indie-rock boys wear with their Converses. Not to mention the racks and racks of jeans and one of the largest selections of Levis, with stacks of styles and colors in dozens of sizes. The store--a warehouse in stature not just name--suits more styles than Billy Bob's casual. Even we found a shirt (with piping and pearl snaps, no less), which was about as likely as LeAnn Rimes recording an album to outsell Blue.

OK, so it's more than "health food," but then that just shouldn't count against it. Our weekend ritual now consists of: Wake up at 8:30 (a.m., that is), throw on some shorts (our own, someone else's, whatever), get into the car and get to Central Market before the doors part at 9, thus allowing in the millions (OK, dozens) who line up to take control of the 50,000-square-foot store before it's overrun with the heathens. We'll admit it: We're foodies, though we so loathe the term (don't even know what it means, actually); we're addicts, freaks, junkies for what the H-E-B folks are pushing. We'll spend an hour that turns into two, an afternoon that turns into a weekend in this place, and still we'll never uncover all it has to offer; we return for what we need, never stopping to ponder there are millions of items we don't need but merely crave (say, the tub of roasted garlic cloves for sale in the to-go area; man, our breath stinks this weekend). Some suggestions: the fresh Southwestern tortillas just off the grill, the black-pepper-marinated olives, the smoked cheddar cheeses, the French hams in the deli area, the Russian rye breads, the prosciutto-and-pepper baguette, the Australian beer, the star fruit, the dried peppers that sell for $50 a pound (all you need is but a few cents' worth), the champagne grapes, the live oysters and clams, the breakfast sausage, the...mmmmmmm, sausage. For once, an ad campaign lives up to its claims: Tom Thumb and Whole Foods are grocery stores; this is heaven, paradise, nirvana. And did we mention the cooking classes, the guest chefs (Naked and otherwise), the tours, the private meeting rooms, the On the Run fun that makes Eatzi's look like, well, Marty's? No? We meant to, but our mouths were stuffed with blue crab claws and tapenade; sorry 'bout that.

The price of fashion takes its toll in many ways other than the slimming of that designer pocketbook of yours. "Chic" eternally revolves and recycles in a vicious, cannibalistic circle, and the constant struggle to remain in The Now seems all but insurmountable when everything ends up being (or actually strives to be) so five-minutes-ago. Short of taking a not-so-scenic thrift-store tour of North Texas--one that's decidedly more famine than feast--the options for the frugal fashionista have been limited, but the chain known as Buffalo Exchange succeeds in both remaking and remodeling even the most discriminating wardrobes. Set up in much the same way as a used record or book shop, BE specializes in the buy/sell/trade of threads that have worn out their welcome, without the hassle of sifting through shop-class ashtrays and incomplete Sesame Street puzzles. Be it the latest trends in street wear, a reinforcement of the tried and true or the funkiest of vintage statements, the clean Greenville Avenue outlet has a consistently organized and shifting stock, and it's quickly become an essential weekend stop.