Tag Archives: Shopping

The most wonderful time of the year

21 Dec

It’s the hap-happiest season of all… Except for the crank-crankiest people in the mall.

It all started when I went to the mall looking for something fun for me. After spending 20 minutes finding a parking space that took me 20 minutes to walk to the mall, I arrived at the gilded gate to the glorified glitz of the super-sized shopping center.

The constant ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the dude trying to get people to drop a nickle into his bucket was very upsetting this year. Not just because I am pretty sure I lost part of my hearing in a freak water-skiing adventure that turned into vertigo that turned into me cupping my ear to hear what’s being said, but because I emptied my wallet to make room for all these stupid coupons I’ll never use so I didn’t have any coins or greenbacks to MAKE.HIM.STOP.THE.FREAKING.DING.DING.NOISE.NOW.

So with ringing in my ear (notice it wasn’t plural), I go to Bebe to see if there was anything a chick my age could wear without fear that some 20-something would {gulp} mock me for wearing. Um. That sooo didn’t work in my favor.

But I did see this Asian woman and her daughter start tugging at a slinky black dress. Since I don’t understand a thing they are saying I am forced to interpret tone and body language.

And I must say – it was quite the spectacle.

Angry Mom with eyes slanted downward (more downward than normal) grabs dress and yells something that has Teenager From Hell yank dress back and repeat Angry Mom’s epitaph (or so it sounded to me.) Spittle flies freely and I suspect lands on said garment.

Back and forth. Ending with a rip, a drop of the dress, and both ladies fled the scene.

Sales folks were conspicuously absent from the mayhem. I think they blended into the size 00 clothes rack that hardly anyone ever touches.

For me, I didn’t see anything more exciting than the Angry Asian Dress Tug-o-War so I left.

I went next to Banana Republic. Don’t you just love the name. I always expect monkeys to fly out the door. Or throw shit.

Which for me, was a dream about to come true. Imagine my delight.

Priggish man is buying I have no idea what for some female in his life. Starts complaining loudly, very loudly about I have no idea what. Sales staff congregate at this register and try to placate Papa but he’s perhaps empowered by the sudden attention and starts making everyone feel like shit, which I can see because he threw something over the counter. Maybe a pen. Or the tape dispenser.

When the dust settles, and Mr. Prig leaves, the girls almost physically shook the shit off their selves and most definitely shook the shit out of their heads so they could get back to job at hand. To sell stuff.

My conclusion: Sales folks at the mall have a shitty job. Granted, they have a job, but it comes with a high price indeed.

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My Shitty Shoes

13 Nov

 

I definitely play favorites with my shoes. They have specific personalities and when I wear them, they evoke specific emotions from me.

Yep – my 5″ gladiator black stilettos make me feel fierce whereas my 2″ tan clogs make me feel – well, a bit sad. I mean, given the choice, wouldn’t you rather wear strappy and sexy?

So it’s with much dismay that I find myself suddenly disgusted today.

First – how dare you walk your dog in public and let Peanut take a dump on the edge of the sidewalk. What a dick. Your dog might take “wittle poo poos”  (cuz I’m sure that’s how you say that), but shit is shit. And your dog shat and you didn’t pick it up.

Peanut’s poo might be pebbles, but when stepped on, this is the only time when I can legitimately say that size doesn’t matter.

And I was wearing my 4″ black knee high boots – the ones I’ve only worn once. The ones that make me feel daring and tall. And I needed daring and tall today.

I’m in public pawing a small patch of grass trying to get the poo off. People are looking at me. I’m about to hurl cuz I don’t know what you fed Peanut, but it smelled like that dog ate belly button lint. Just gross. Thanks.

I give in and stand in line at the Starbucks to get a bottle of water and some napkins. Then I thought “aha” – and sneak into the bathroom. Now I’m sure these public bathrooms are all spotless and sanitary, but I’m not about to take my boot off and stand in my tights on that floor. Hail no. Nor am I going to pop a squat on the toilet seat to clean em up.

So I settle for wetting down a bunch of paper towels and reverting to plan A. Pawing my dirty boot on the floor. By now, I’m pissed. This job is going to require some extensive surgery to remove the poo from the grooves. I’m forced to come home.

Thanks to my handiwork with toothpicks, the boot is poo free, but now I don’t want to wear them anymore. They are now evoking disgust from me. It wasn’t their fault, but at least for today, the memory of being smeared with poo goo is just too fresh.

And now that I’m back home, I guess my fuzzy black slippers will just have to do.

Fight or flight?

22 Oct

Nature’s response to acute stress – should I stay or should I go now?

When faced with a threat, our primitive and automatic response is to basically run and hide or to stand and deliver. Or in my case, to do both. At the same time.

You see, my own inborn response system tends to overreact. I can’t help it. I’ve tried. I’m like a grazing giraffe sensing a lioness licking her lips nearby. I lift my head up, cock my ears, and sniff the air. And sensing danger, my initial reaction is to run. And then to stay. And then to run.

Which is how I found myself yesterday. I’m 2 days post op, wearing my hot cocoa Life Is Good pajama set and fuzzy slippers. Standing at the sink washing my lunch dish, I see a waft of smoke near the back fence.

“Hmmm. That’s odd – I wonder if the guy behind us owns a tractor?” (Yep, that’s my first thought.)

Then the second waft of smoke goes by.

“Wait a minute… That guy doesn’t have a tractor…”

I grab my eye glasses and try to keep them perched on my nose (hard to do with a splint on your face.) But I go out back and around the side of the house where I see 10 foot plumes of flame and smoke.

I turn left, I turn right. I yell at the dogs – “GET BACK INSIDE”. And omg for the first time ever, the dogs listened to me. They don’t understand “Outside bad doggie” when they do something naughty, but they run INSIDE when I’m OUTSIDE telling them to go back. Go figure.

Anyway, my inner super hero kicks in and in no time flat, I’ve got both dogs inside, the doggie doors shut, and I grabbed both phones. Quickly dialed 911 with my right hand, and the hubby with my left.

I’m running down the hall double-fisting the phones.

911: “What’s your emergency?”

{stalling, hoping the hubby would pick up so I would only have to tell the story once…}

me: “THERE’S A FIRE!!!”

911: “Ok, ma’am, stay on the line…”

hubby: {picks up but I think it’s his bluetooth I’m talking to, not his ear…}

me: “GET HOME RIGHT NOW – THERE’S A FIRE!!!”

hubby: “what?”

me: “OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD… JUST GET HOME!!”

911: “ma’am what’s going on?”

{I’m outside now, with phones glued to both ears and my eyeglasses perched cockeyed on the bridge of my splint, running toward and away from the fire}

911: “ma’am where’s the fire?”

me: “It’s in the backyard, the pool equipment.”

(I was no longer screaming. BUT TALKING LOUDLY.)

hubby: “What are you saying?”

me: “I. SAID. THERE.IS.A.FIRE!!!”

{crap, I should have used the land line to call him – freaking cell phone connections.}

911: “ma’am you have to calm down. how close to the house is it?”

me: “I don’t know, 10 feet?” (I ask her because while I know when something isn’t perfectly aligned, I can’t tell you by how much. Hoping she knows the right answer I guess.)

me (to hubby): “Where’s an extinguisher…”

hubby: “Grab a hose… grab a hose.”

me: “There are no hoses.”

{I don’t know why I said that. We have hoses every 10 feet in my yard. Truth is, when faced with a great idea, I think I tend to deny it’s a good one…}

me: “OK, hold on both of you…”

I toss my glasses, cell phone and home phone into the grass. Run to what had to be the furthest hose, stepping in poo by the way and turn the water on. Grab the end of the hose and start running back. It’s amazing how something as simple as water can extinguish a fire. Wow. I feel silly now.

I put the hose down, pick both phones up and announce “OK, the fire’s out.”

I thank the nice 911 lady and hang up. Pick the hose back up and continue to douse the smoke. Just in case.

In the distance I hear the wail of the fire engine. It gets closer. I tell the hubby the firemen are here, gotta go. Hang up. Not sure what he said as I disconnected though. He might have said something like “open the gate…”

Since my yard slopes downward, I can see the truck arrive – but not pull into my driveway. Crap. Forgot to tell the 911 lady the gate code. Double Crap.

Ever the water conscious gal, I run back to the bib and turn off the water, then grab my phones and glasses then run to the front. Run to the gate and press the code. By now, I’ve run out of breath, and see myself in their eyes.

“Nice nose job” I’m sure they’re thinking. For the record, I didn’t have a NOSE JOB. No cosmetic work – this time around. I had “reconstructive surgery”. There’s a difference. But I looked like shit.

My inner girlie girl was reminded of the last time I met strangers in my front yard, while wearing ratty pajamas and having unwashed hair. Flashbacks suck. There would be no conciliatory shoe shopping to make up for the humiliation.

And for whatever reason, the fireguys decide to leave the truck with lights-a-twirling on the road. Facing the opposite direction, smack dab in front of our gate. Sigh.

Me and the boys start making our way to the fire’s epicenter when the hubby arrives. Thank GAWD.

I know this about me – I do. I am that girl. You know the one. She leans on her daddy and then her hubby to fix things. I’m as much dismayed by this fact as I am thankful for it.

But now that the cavalry has arrived in all their manly glory and work boots, I decide to exhale and go inside.

It would take me the next five or six hours, two pain pills and a glass of wine to calm down. And see the humor. And the poo. Sigh.

Showering in public

18 Sep

One of the best things about being on our friend’s big boat is well, being on their big boat. We arrived on Thursday at sunset, and it was beautiful – fog was rolling down the hill, you could see the bank of fog that had earlier engulfed the SF Bay, but in our little marina in Sausalito, it was just GOR-GEOUS.

It was a challenge to work from the boat on Friday but somehow between spotty wifi from the coffee house that blares bad french music, and my blackberry with the itty bitty screen, I got the job done.

We had dinner reservations at Sushi Ran so armed with my big bag of girlie goods, I left the big boat and headed to the marina showers.

I’ve used these showers before – we stay on our friend’s big boat every September – so I knew what to expect. First year I was not so wise. That year I went barefoot. Was damn lucky I didn’t contract some sort of scaly toe web fungus thingy.

Now that’s not to say the marina bathrooms are dirty – they are not. The poddy’s are very clean and well stocked. The counters are debris free and dry. But the shower stalls. Hmmm.

BUT – flip flops are a must. I imagine the lady who used the shower before me yesterday left bald. I was worried I’d have to use the toe of my flipper to nudge the hairball out of the drain – and equally worried if I didn’t I’d be standing ankle deep in a pool of soapy dreadlocks soon.

I decide this is not the time to luxuriate under the warm spray of water. Get the hell out asap. And that got me thinking about etiquette in public bathrooms.

We all know the courtesy flush is mandatory – and after you use the sink, you wipe the water off the counter – but what about the shower? What is the etiquette? I think common sense tells us to leave it in better condition than we found it, but I’m not game enough to go there here.

We were with HIM and HER and HE said anything goes – and he meant it. Given the risk of scaly moldy burning itchy feet, HE absolutely ascribes to peeing when HE gets in and again when HE gets out. Calls it organic, it’s the all-natural biocide. Thinks Whole Foods would buy it…

Needless to say, flip flops are a must people and it’s not just the hair in the drain you have to be worried about.  Thank god for anti-bacterial gel. Just saying.

Dress to impress

14 Sep

A week and a half from now, the hubby and I will be heading out for some much needed poolside R&R.  I imagine several days spent lazing in lounge chairs, reading bodice ripper romance novels, being served cocktails with little umbrellas served by hot young cabana boys wearing skimpy shorts.

It sounds decadent and spoiled – and that’s the point. To be pampered and catered like the rich and famous. That’s where we’re going – to that magical kingdom that’s the happiest place on earth – for adults. Vegas.

As I perused my existing wardrobe, it struck me – I’ve booked a chi chi resort in a hot as hell city with hot as hell chicks. Do I have the right… stuff?

The pools we get to use are pretty darn exclusive – and if your know your current pop culture, you’ll know a certain celebrity (pssst…Paris Hilton) was recently not-so-gently-banned from where we’re staying…

And we have some VIP passes at a very hot nightclub (thank you UNOWHO!)

Which led me to ponder one of chickdom’s most critical and timeless questions “what should I wear?”

OK, I admit, I kinda have the whole shoe situation figured out. After all, I love me my high heels, but the rest? Bikinis, slinky dresses? I’m… after all…kinda old…

And given that I’m … kinda old… should I be wearing bikinis and slinky dresses?

Which lead me to ask google – the equivalent of calling your best friend and asking “what are you gonna wear?”

The response from my new google gal pal was “dress to impress beyotch”   (ok, she didn’t say beyotch exactly, but I imagine if she did, she would sound a lot like Lil Kim. Just sayin…)

Judging my own wardrobe, I knew the Vegas verdict would be handed down on me faster than a video confession ala What Not To Wear…. Guilty… clothes that don’t fit, flatter, showcase or support my sagging … assets…

Bitch… I mean Beyotch.

So I start to question myself… inner voice says “hey self”… i say “yes”

Inner voice says “hey, you rock, have a great hubby and life, why the doubt about your look – the levi’s 505s….”

I say “first off, yes, thank you dear Lord, and wtf – who wears 505s these days? are you kidding me?”

I continue to say ala Stacy London…. “SHUT UP!! …first off…  i’m ok/you’re ok and all that crap – but this is about enjoying la dolce vita, or at least, the vida loca.”

And armed with this wise inner bitchitude, I decide what to wear. And what not wear.

Stay tuned. I’ll explain later in Vegas why they say it’s important to dress to impress… {wink}

Help! I’ve fallen…

12 Sep

Don't even think of picking that up...

It’s a sad sad day indeed when a 40-something gal goes shoe shopping and winds up ass down near the price check during the One-Day Sale at Macy’s.

And that’s how I spent my Saturday afternoon folks. After a humiliating early morning where I got to meet 10 or so of the hubby’s “Go Bears” posse while not so pretty (translation: disgusting and sloppy), I decided there’s nothing like a new pair of shoes or three to cheer a gal up.

So off I went armed with a 20% off coupon and high hopes. And high heels. Well, just 3″ wedges. But they were caramel suede and smart as hell.

If you’ve ever been to a department store one-day sale, you know that every woman there is in it for herself. There’s no polite “excuse me” or “I’m sorry” happening between the racks of highly discounted shoes. No, these women will step on your bare foot with 4″ spikey heels if you don’t move along fast enough. I should know – I’ve ‘accidentally’ done that. And I do mean accidentally. To the lady with the tan capri’s and floral top I swear I really am sorry. Just was so focused I didn’t notice…

Anyhoo, I found these great 4.5″ light tan wedge’s on the sale rack. I take my right shoe off, and say hello to my new little friend. It’s a bit awkward walking with one 3″ heel and one 4.5″ heel, but I’m game. I wobble between the isles and then voila, sitting all by her lonesome on the floor is a dazzling multi-color strappy 4″ beauty begging me to adopt her like a cute little puppy in the window.

I eagerly bend down to pick her up and cuddle her. She is perfect! I must try her on.

As luck would have it, it’s a left shoe – so I push off my own shoe and balancing precariously now on one 4.5″ wedge, I lift my left foot up, and just as I’m reaching down to put the new strappy puppy on…

I flippin tip over!

Right by the price check machine.

And in front of all those women who gasped and one who asked if I was OK in that voice reserved for people who clearly are not, you know, OK.

I dropped fast and hard – it’s a good thing I already broke my left wrist in a freak roller skating accident back in ’04 and as a result have a $6M bionic wrist (I joke, it’s just a 5″ titanium bar with 8{gulp} huge screws), otherwise, you can imagine the drama that would have been Lisa. Oh yeah, I’m absolutely a wuss.

So as quick as my pride would let me, I got up and looked the woman in the eye who asked if I was OK and said “that was fucking embarrassing.” To which she made that little “O” with her mouth and walked away.

Thoroughly disgraced, I blindly walked toward a table of boots. Pretended they were super duper and picked 4 of them up… Then I realized I was lopsided.  I had no shoe on my left foot but I did retain that cute 4.5″ tan wedge on my right.

And in my hand, one of my shoes. Where the hell did I lose the other shoe? I walked topsy turvy through every table, rack, seated area no less than 6 times retracing my path trying to find my shoe. It was gone. Would someone have mistook my clearly worn shoe that wasn’t marked with a Macy’s label as a freebie? Who would do that? Why would they do that? Wierdos.

I also couldn’t find that cute strappy number after that – and since my own shoe never turned up, I can only surmise that they must be part of the mystery of the missing sock in the dryer syndrome.

I was faced with really only one choice here – I had to eventually leave and to do so, I’d have to walk barefoot through the mall parking lot – or – buy a new pair of shoes. The one that was fated to me. Those cute 4.5″ light tan wedges that were on incredible sale.

The day ended happily enough, but I have aa bruise on my ass and thigh that will remind me for a while that life is very imbalanced and you must compensate sometimes with flats. Or however you compensate.

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