It’s that time of year again. We’re preparing to go on vacation at the end of the month. Since we have basically three places we venture off to, it was hard deciding which one to go to this year. We ended up with the final decision of driving to the beach house in the Hamptons. My blood pressure drops immensely when I’m there. The great thing about that place is—you don’t have to step foot out of the house. The beach is right there; almost under the deck at times, but we always head out to try different restaurants and bars. The wineries are amazing as well as all the activities that are available there.
I’m not your typical ‘girl’ who loves to shop for clothes. I absolutely hate it. The worst part of it is trying things on. The funhouse mirrors and the bad lighting is enough to make me cringe. I went to the mall the other day because I needed new clothes for this year. I tried on some cargo pants, because they’re great for walking on the beach. You can carry everything in those little pockets, from money, gum, and lipstick, to credit cards, compact mirror and a flask of Ketel One—just in case.
So here I am trying these new cargos on. They were a weird blue camouflage capri-style that I fell in love with. I walk into the dressing room with two pairs of different sizes and a few tops. The pants fell just right above my crotch. My hoo hoo was practically waving hello. God forbid I went to sit down! My whole bum would be out on display. I do not have a top to compensate for the missed sections where the material belongs. I’m no longer 20 yrs old, and I cannot wear something that reveals my midriff, because that would be so wrong. I then read the tag on the pants that say, “Ultra ultra ultra low riders”. Oh no—these go back on the rack along with the other teeny-bopper pants. My six pack abs turned into a keg of beer. Not that I’m going to bust out in a pair of pants that go up to my neck or anything.
Zilch. That’s what I walked out with. Of course they have all the ‘dressy’ clothes that are appropriate for my age range, but as soon as I want to get into the fun clothes, the crotch is missing. So then I head into my favorite section—the shoe department. You really can’t go wrong here. Or can you?... I know different styles come and go, but jellies? I had no clue they were back in. I don’t care if everybody and their mutha are wearing these God awful sandals—I’m not one of them. I want my wedged strappy sandals with an opened toe. I want stylish semi-platform flip-flops to walk around on vacation. No, they had none of these here. They had awful looking shoes that my grandmother would wear—the type of shoes you would dye for a wedding. Those. They had whites, beiges, and pinks. What the %$*&???
After hours of dragging our asses all over the mall, we get sucked into some Israeli salesman trying to lure us into his midsection stand. You know, those little stores in the middle of the mall? Anyway, he was selling quick and easy manicure kits with various lotions and other neat stuff. You didn’t need any nail polish or anything to make your nails look shiny and just painted. I was sold on the idea.
“You ask me how dees’ work.” The nice man says.
“How does this work?” I gave into his stupid infomercial game. He starts giving me a free manicure right there—and then starts rubbing my hands with some salty weird concoction.
“You put dees’ on leek’ dat—and den’ you see shine! Ask me why!” He begs me for questioning.
“Why?” I said, trying to appease him.
“Because eetz’ made from pure seawater residue dat’ leaves your hands nice and smooth and your nails nice and shiny! Ask me how much!”
“$29.99! Yes yes???”
“Yes yes.” I said, as he threw me a bag of tricks full of manicure tools and lotions. Ah well, at least I bought something.
“Now here are some extra lotions dat’ I have available too! Yes yes???”
“No no. Thank you though—I appreciate everything.” I said, as we shuffled away from the excitable Israeli man with my packaged goods.
Now I have no idea if any of you go through this. I know Mike works at a store in the mall and knows that each mall everywhere has one of these highly excitable Israelis luring people into the midsection. What baffles me are the thug-like guys sitting down at the Nextel stations waiting for their customers to pile on top of their stand. They don’t even make eye contact with you. All you hear is, “bleep bleep bleep” coming from their paging systems. I always have to run over there to buy a new accessory to my Nextel phone, or pick up an extra phone case. It’s like they don’t even want to make a sale. They just stare at you and let you rummage through their tons of freaky little blinking antennas and pimped out phone covers. (So not what I need—just as bad as the pants that showed my crotch.)
The best part about going into the mall is ending up at Ruby Tuesday’s drinking your shopping blues away. That’s the only thing that keeps me motivated to shop these days. Now I have to go through this again tomorrow evening with Madelene, because time’s running out and I desperately need clothes for vacation. God help me find something! And that’s as religious as this post gets today.
From the comment section:
We have a winner! Asa has taken on the job to be my personal shopping assistant. Her qualifications range from being a beautiful & intelligent Swedish woman with a great sense of style. Her love for Ketel One is another perk that will only benefit from this outing. Thank you Asa, for applying for the job. Please visit Asa's site and say hello! She's an incredible writer--and a woman I *cannot* have--she plays for the other team. She's easy on the eyes, right guys? Maybe after the Ketel One martinis kick in, she'll change her mind...
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