In April, I’d said to my family, “I should like to go to the mall and eat a warm, soft, buttery, salted pretzel.”
The girls were tremendously excited by this because they are teenagers and they truly enjoy the mall. ‘Where things are’ or whatever. We had not been to the mall since Boxing Day and they were probably going through withdrawal over what’s new ‘where things are’.
I hate the mall, but my desire to go to the mall increased ten-fold when I encountered a clothing crisis of epic proportion.
We had tickets to the symphony May 5th. May 5th should be a perfect time to wear a lightweight, flowy dress with a lil sweater or a jacket and strappy sandals. Seriously, I have three perfect outfits to wear for this theoretical May 5th.
The actual May 5th was absolute crap weather for dressing up. May 5th was all high of 51 and low overnight of 36.
I wanted to wear slacks, a sweater, and loafers.
The Mister wanted to rock a suit.
I expressed my clothing troubles and asked him if he would dress down a lil, and he smirked at me, “I wanna wear a suit.”
“I’ll have to shop!” I declared.
I hate shopping.
Oh My God with the hunting and carrying and the lil strings that tie me up and FUCK ALL THE HANGERS!
I tried to be optimistic and hit Kohl’s before work. I would surely find somethin.
I tried on 13 dresses before work.
I kept one, but not for the date.
Pro-Tip: always straighten hair on clothing try-on days. I went into the dressing room lookin all smooth and wavy and came out lookin like I brawled with a hairbrush.
This does not begin to describe the horrors I experienced inside the dressing room. Ladies, you know.
The lighting in dressing rooms is the most unflattering light ever. Worse than my master bath.
I am green with red splotches, my hair is brassy, my eyes are sunken with dark circles only a raccoon could love, and all of my veins are DayGlo blue, okay? Additionally, I am super large and lumpy. It’s all very Pilsbury Doughboy meets Fiona the ogre version in there.
But only IN the dressing room. OUTSIDE the dressing room I am decidedly human, even a reasonably attractive mom-type human.
I tried on shoes. I love shoes. I mean, I don’t like to wear them, but I could easily be a shoe monger, because when I do need to wear shoes, I believe one simply cannot have enough choices. And not to brag, but I have nice narrow feet and I can wear any shoe which goes a long way in counteracting the fitting room agony.
I was debating over shoes when I realized it was time to go to work.
Mentor suggested Macy’s. The Macy’s I go to is over by the Target on Keystone, and I hadn’t been able to go there for my precious goat cheese pizza in over a week, because that area is so floody when it rains and it had hellarained. Still don’t have any goat cheese pizza in my freezer… Point being, too floody to go to my Macy’s.
Anyway, when I got home, we went to the mall to hit up that Macy’s.
First we got Sassy a new swimsuit, then we all ate a slice of the giant Sbarro pizza.
Now, I’ve been in the Macy’s at the mall before, just about thirty feet in, to buy a particular lip balm. Then I found out you can order that shit online and so I hadn’t been even thirty feet into Macy’s for about three years.
Well, I went more than thirty feet in. I went deep. It’s… I FUCKING LOVE MACY’S IN THE MALL.
Macy’s in the mall is like a magical clothing oasis. They must have had TWENTY THOUSAND dresses. IN MY SIZE.
After I’d tried on two dresses, The Mister finally offered to dress down a bit.
Then I got the right dress and some very bad tights and also a surprise 30% off. I had tunnel-visioned dresses so hard, I hadn’t even noticed the signs.
When we left Macy’s, pretzels were suggested. I had no room for a pretzel. I could not pretzel, as I had pizza-ed. Since I am not a growing girl, I could only envy Sassy’s pretzel. Isn’t that sad?
Some young smarmy man tried to hit me up with a packet of cream. As has been noted on Dramatic Momologue, you can only fall for the cream vendor once. Some young smarmy fellow takes you to a kiosk where he tells you how pretty you could be with a bit more effort. As he comments on your skin’s flaws, he rubs ancient creams (from plastic packets) on you, tells you how much better you look, and then tries to get you to spend “Only $120 for all these exclusive beauty remedies.” This particular young smarmy man said somethin to me about The Dead Sea. I waved him off. I could not be bothered. Products of the sea cannot work on me. I am not a mermaid. I rely on the essence of trees and plants, for I am a forest creature, as all ogres are.
Happy Friday Everyone!