Shopping. My Personal Hell.

I.  hate.  shopping.  Always have, probably always will.  I don't know if I missed some girl gene that makes you enjoy this horriffic experience or what, but to me, shopping of any kind is an absolute torturous nightmare.  All of my fears were reaffirmed when I made the mistake of returning a recent online purchase directly to the store yesterday.

One of my precious, dearest friends in life was kind enough to send me a $50 gift card to Ann Taylor as a congratulations on my new job.  SO sweet, and SO unexpected - just an absolutely amazing gesture!  And back when I could still partially stand it, that is the one store that I would occasionally brave.  However, despite the shipping charges, I did most of my damage online. 

Anyway, I received this glorious gift and within three hours had spent the entire thing online.  I bought a pair of businessy pants in "sharkskin" grey and a "citronella" colored wrap top thingy.  Could not have been more excited to recieve these beauties in the mail!

When they arrived I practically ran to try them on.  I was shocked and amazed to discover that my optimistic purchase of a size 6 pant actually worked and they fit!  Then I unwrapped the top - if by "citronella" they meant "so bright that you will have to squint your eyes to even consider looking in the general direction of this garment", then yes, it was citronella colored.  But color aside - because I actually started to like it - it was too big.  Which I was really bummed about because it was very cute and had just a tiny touch of cashmere in it, so it was super comfy too. 

I was going to mail it back and just switch out the sizes, but being the impetuous gal that I am, I simply could not wait for snail mail to get the replacement.  So yesterday afternoon I decided to truck it up to the Ann Taylor store to swap my dayglo gear.

Now here's why I hate shopping.  It all starts in the parking lot - finding a space, doing the whole "are you going?  No I'll go..." dance with other cars, and then when you do see a space you can't get to it in time because of all the stupid pedestrians.  So my frustration level is already at about a 2.5 before I even step foot in the store.  Yesterday I finally found a spot and then walked 43 miles to the store in 90 degree heat.  Frustration level 3.25. 

So I go in the store, go straight to the back counter and announce that I need to exchange something.  "OKAY no prob!  I'll be processing this for you while you look around!", says the painfully stylish chick behind the counter, who then goes on to ask me if I know about their "ONE DAY ONLY storewide promotion?!"  Well no, since I don't work here and I just stepped in the door, I sure don't know about your one day only storewide promotion.  I'm still not even sure what the promotion was - she just started to sound like a bunch of bubbly noise after about 45 seconds as she launched into her sales pitch. 

At this point I am starting to ascertain that I will NOT be merely switching out this top for a size down.  I am going to be forcefully bullied into trying on, and consequently purchasing, things that "look so great" on me.  They are going to ask me if I need other sizes, bring me shoes to complement the "outfit", and force me to come out of the comfort of my private dressing room to show them "how it fits".  And that is exactly what happened.  Frustration level bypasses midrange and jumps from a slightly annoyed 3.25 to a panic-induced, sweaty 9.0. 

I finally manage to plow past little miss "do you need another size" and wriggle my way out of the dressing room with my selections balled up in my sweaty hand.  At this point I am not even sure what I've decided on buying.  I just knew that I wasn't escaping with a clean, no out-of-pocket expense getaway, as I'd originally planned, so I'm sure I just picked a few of the least expensive things my oh-so-helpful fashion nazis had tossed in there.

I went in to merely switch a shirt for the exact same shirt, and ended up with a dress and two cami-ish tank kind of things that are apparently a "must have" to wear with suits.  I don't even own a respectable suit.  I'm still not sure what the hell I'm going to do with these things.  And as if all of this wasn't enough, when the girl checked my I.D. at the counter, she looked me right in my flustered face and said, "Oh wow!  You don't look your age at all!"  UMMMM fuck you in your heart, you worthless retail whore.  How the hell old is TWENTY-NINE supposed to look exactly?!  I guess I must have done a hell of a job covering up my crow's feet and liver spots today, huh?!  Frustration level....  one million...  head exploding...

Shipping charges be damned - online shopping it is.

How I'm Reminded I'm Not Ready for Babies...

I haven't discussed it here, but it is FBO (Mom, that's "facebook official") that I got a new job.  We'll discuss in more detail later - I am working on a post about the sheer joy of interviewing - but today I'd like to discuss one of my constant reminders that I am not ready for kids.

As previously mentioned, I got a new job, and therefore turned in my notice last week.  And I have Short-timers.  BAD.  I am so mentally checked out it's not even funny.  I didn't really even want to get involved with people's crappy $50 projects when I knew I was going to get paid on them, and now that I'm not?...  I've been spending the majority of the day at work hiding.  Unsuccessfully. 

Anyway, Saturday is typically a slow day, but last Saturday, for whatever obnoxious reason, we were slammed.  And shorthanded, of course.  We had a momentary lull in traffic and I was standing behind the counter close to the front door.  There was only one lady in the store and she had a kid that was about two and a half or three feet tall with her.  (I don't do kid's ages, but I was told later that children of this height are maybe three-ish?)  So this kid had her blanket and a stuffed animal with her and you could just tell she was a little princess.  Not the cute kind, the demanding, "look at me!" kind.

So the kid's mom was standing there talking to one of our sales associates, and the kid was running around their feet, knocking stuff over, and just generally being a three year old I guess.  Well I looked away for two seconds, and when I looked back little princess had pulled her pants down past her butt and was sitting down on the freakin' WELCOME mat of the store, knuckle-deep in her butthole.  Justa goin' to town.  Doing what, I have no idea. 

I looked around for a second, to make sure that I wasn't hallucinating or to see if there was another witness to this kid violating herself at the entrance of the store.  There wasn't.  So as soon as there was a lull in conversation between the kid's mother and the sales associate, all I could say was, "Uh ummmmmmm....."  At this, the mom turned around and saw her precious angel swirling her disgusting little finger around in her no-no place.  Her embarrassment was obvious, and she immediately told the kid to stop, and stood her up and handed her the blanket - which the kid anxiously grabbed with her butthole fingers.  Sick.  And note to self - do NOT touch a kid's sheet of filth blanket, like EVER.

The mom was all flushed and nervously mumbled some sort of apology under her breath.  I went back to what I was doing and tried my best not to think about what other objects in the store this kid might be running around stink-palming, and the next thing I know, the three of them go walking by the counter and the kid deliberately stops, turns to me, and sticks her tongue out.  WTF, man?! 

And are you ready for it?  The most recent of my constant reminders that I'm not ready for babies?...  As a 29-year-old woman, my natural reaction to this tougue-sticky-outy absurdity was to do it right back to her.  Score one for the grown-ups.

Kindness... A.k.a. Out of My Comfort Zone

Most of you who know me personally know that Lane and I are quite different.  I grew up on the hardest streets of Atlanta (and by 'the hardest streets' I of course mean 'the suburbs of') and he grew up in a smaller south Georgia river town.  Long story short - where I'd say 'piss off' he says 'yes ma'am'. 

I have even done such things as call him a weirdo when he does things like take our leftover and oh-so-yummy fried shrimp to our pals working late at the bait shop or when he took a bottle of water over to our neighbor who was sweating his ass off doing yard work the other day.  Never mind the fact that I had been refilling and drinking out of that exact water bottle for three weeks...  I only hope that our neighbor didn't go back into his pregnant wife with my sparkly lip stuff on his mouth.

Anywho...  I have no idea why, but I am just generally uncomfortable with these unsolicited acts of kindness.  But people LOVE Lane because he does these sorts of things.  And I mean LOVE him.  I think that they overlook the fact that they are getting someone else's crusty water bottle because it's just such a nice gesture and so unexpected and rare.  And Lane always says that it doesn't cost anything and it only takes a few seconds to make a big difference to someone, so why not? 

I have really tried to follow this philosophy, because I do whole-heartedly agree with it, but for me it doesn't come as naturally...  Case-in-point happened the other day...

As I have mentioned, I walk my precious baby Baron every morning.  When we are out is usually about the time that all the neighborhood kids are walking to the front of the neighborhood to catch the bus.  Every single morning I am amazed that none of these skinny jean, Converse-wearing douches will look me in the eye or say good morning or even ACKNOWLEDGE my presence at all.  They all shuffle their feet and swish their bangs and stay plugged into their i-pods, looking straight down at the ground as we pass each other on the sidewalk.  And every morning I think, "how will these idiots ever make it in the world?"...  Well, every kid except one of them ignores me. 

My next door neighbor's son is friends with a kid who gets dropped off by his grandmother at the asscrack of dawn so that he can catch the bus from our neighborhood - I don't know it to be a fact, but I can only assume that it would have something to do with going to school in a better district?...  Anyway, he gets dropped off at the neighborhood entrance, walks to my neighbor's house, walks back to the entrance of the neighborhood to catch the bus, walks back after school, and then gets picked up around 6:30 p.m.  It's gotta be a long day for the poor kid.  He doesn't roll out of bed and saunter to the bus.  He gets up early and commutes.  And he doesn't carry an i-pod, he carries a Ziploc bag of cereal and eats it on the walk.  And he is the ONLY one who looks me in the eye and smiles and says, "Good Morning!" every we pass each other, without fail.  In a skinny jean, no eye-contact-making kind of world, this kid really stands out to me. 

Until the other afternoon our little exchanges have never gone beyond "good morning".  I don't even know the kid's name.  I was outside putting up our American flag for Memorial Day when I saw the kid's grandmother pull up to pick him up.  As soon as I saw him I thought about how proud I would be of him if that was my son or grandson.  Then I thought that I should tell his grandmother how much of a difference he makes in my mornings.  But I thought twice because then I would be the weirdo!!!  And then I heard that little voice in my head - it doesn't cost anything, it only takes a few seconds, and it could make a big difference to someone...  So, despite my natural inclination to be super uncomfortable, I sucked it up and ran over to the car before they pulled away.

I walked over to the passenger side where the kid was sitting and looked through to the woman driving.  I said, "Is this your son?"  (At this point I didn't know she was the Grandmother.)  Both the woman and the kid looked at me like deer caught in the headlights.  They were so taken aback it was almost comical.  Then she cut her eyes and the kid and looked back at me and said very cautiously, "he's my grandson..."  And the kid shifted nervously in his seat, like I was about to say something that would get him grounded until he was 47.  I said, "Well I want you to know that I walk my dog every morning and pass about twenty kids in this neighborhood and your grandson is the only one that says good morning.  It really means so much to me and I just thought you should know." 

By the time I was done talking I thought the woman's teeth might pop out of her head she was smiling so big.  She said, "Oh really?!  Thank you!" and I looked back at the kid and he was half-smiling, half awestruck.  I told them to have a good night and they were on their way.

Every morning since then this sweet kid smiles the biggest smile and really puts extra effort into his "good morning", like we are best of friends.  And I will never forget the look on that proud grandmother's face.  I know what I said made a difference to both of them.  And guess what?  It took two seconds of my life and it cost me nothing.  Not only did it cost me nothing, I got something from it...  and that was the satisfaction of knowing that (although it IS my specialty) not everything that comes out of my mouth has to be a smart ass, dripping with sarcasm type of comment.  Albeit rare, sometimes I can just be nice.  And it's worth it.  Even if it makes me a weirdo.