Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: Christmas, clothing, dress, family, humor, Lowes, malls, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, shopping, south, southern, subourbonmom, success, walmart
Maybe you’ve heard the saying, “Dress for the job you want.” Well, I am a firm believer in dressing for the help you want when shopping. If you dress like a tired mom in stained sweat pants and unwashed hair, see how many sales people come up and offer to assist you. You’ll be leper in the middle of J.Crew, all alone somewhere in the sale section. However, if you dress in a way that says you’re ready to buy, and that you have the money to do it, things are vastly different.
A few of weeks ago, I dressed for a day of shopping at the mall, in my good skinny jeans and a sweater that covers up those saddlebags that no amount of leg lifts will eliminate. I even had makeup on because, let’s face it— women dress for each other when they shop, not for the men. Sorry guys, but it’s true. At the clubs it’s a different story—we’re all about you (just keep nodding and smiling, ladies—they don’t know!).
The first stop that day was Lowes, a store I feel lost in the minute I step through the doors. The signs are hung too high, and nothing is organized the way I would do it. Who puts storage stuff behind the gardening stuff? It should go somewhere in the house section.
But I digress…so I walked in, feeling like a delicate daffodil among the burly men prowling the aisles. There were a couple of other women there, too, and I’m sure they were doing something admirable, like fixing the drywall in their kids’ playroom. But I was heading to the mall afterward, and had dressed for the Nordstroms dress section, not the Lowes drill press section.
Eventually, I found the enormous storage box I was looking for. A male employee about my age (we’ll just smile and call it 30) said he would carry the box to the checkout counter for me. Flexing his muscles, he marched the box past two lines of at least 6 irritated people, and opened a new register just for me. I could feel resentment drilling into my back from the other customers. I never did get his name to give to the manager, but maybe that was a good thing. I think he might have gotten in trouble.
A week later, I had to go to Lowes again to make a return. Again, I was looking decent—ok, maybe it’s a subconscious thing—I dress well when I know I’m going into the giant man cave. I made my return, and immediately tried to exit through the ENTER door.
I walked into it.
That’s right, I walked into the door at Lowes.
I stood there for a moment until my menopause brain eventually noticed the backwards ENTER letters. To my shame, as I turned to go out the actual EXIT, a male employee came over and said, “Here, ma’am, let me help you.” He pushed open the ENTER door for me, like I was Cleopatra, and I waltzed through as if nothing had happened. Maybe it was pity for my blatantly blonde moment, but I’m telling you, dressing for the service you want really works.
Now, if I had watched someone like me walk into the ENTER door, I would have rolled on the floor laughing.
The only store I have found where this strategy doesn’t work is Wal-Mart. No matter what you look like, what language you speak or what expression you have on your face, the employees always treat you the same—like cattle going through the chute. But in a way, that’s ok. There’s no pressure. I can go in there at 7:30 a.m., wearing my ridiculous sequined Christmas tree shirt that I break out once a year for the program at school, or I can be in a cocktail dress getting a last minute hostess gift (i.e. cheap bottle of wine), and I get the same treatment.
I’m anonymous, and I love it. Wal-Mart may be a lot of things, but it is definitely the great equalizer.
Every woman wants their Pretty Woman moment—they want to walk into a store that previously shunned them, and get fawned over when the sales people realize she’s now the real deal. If you want that moment, I suggest starting off small, like in a Lowes or Home Depot. Dress in your “I’ve-lost-all-hope-stay-at-home-mom clothes one day,” and then in your Spanx, good shirt and jeans, and supportive bra, and see what happens.
And don’t forget to say as you leave, “Big mistake. Huge. I have to go shopping now.”
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: cars, driving, humor, Marriage, southern, tailgates, traffic martyrs
You’ve all seen them as you’re stuck in a hideous line of traffic going from four lanes to two, or as 20,000 people are trying to leave a stadium at the same time. Either way, somebody farther up is LETTING PEOPLE IN. That person is a Traffic Martyr.
Sacrificing your spot in line for a Slider (a.k.a. the I’m-going-to-try-and-get-over-even-though-I-saw-the-line-backing-up-a-mile-ago-guy) not only rewards rude driving, it has historically caused an immeasurable and unrecorded rise in health care costs. The lemmings behind the Traffic Martyr have to up their Lipitor dosage, or risk having their hearts explode as their blood pressure escalates faster than the General Patraeus sex scandal.
If you are, or ever have been, a Traffic Martyr, maybe you’re one of those genuinely nice people who believe in letting Sliders in once a day. I’ll bet you even do it with a smile and a wave. And you probably believe in unicorns.
But I doubt you’re really that nice, down deep inside. Letting Sliders in your lane probably made you feel good, maybe a little self-righteous, and definitely a little superior. After all, you were the nice one. I’ve been there myself. And in the right situation, Traffic Martyrs can be useful, like when they slow the pace down enough to let you safely whack your teenager with a “punch-buggy-no-punch-back” hit while driving with your knees.
But if there’s one thing people hate more than Traffic Martyrs, it ‘s Sliders.
When Hubby encounters a Slider attempting to invade his driving space, he usually creeps up until he’s one inch behind the car in front, blocking the Slider. It’s as effective as a girl saying “let’s be friends.” Hubby’s move usually results in lots of honking and bird-flipping. But recently, in a rare act of being a Slider, Hubby ran into the ultimate Slider Hater.
Literally.
At the horse races last week (the same ones where the Irish news interviewed me), Hubby was trying to leave the infield with 10,000 other wind-burned, inebriated tailgaters. Having thoughtfully parked on the end of the aisle, facing out, he was quickly ready to merge into the line of stop-and-go traffic. One driver, however, was very upset that Hubby was going to be allowed to join the vehicular Conga line so soon. But instead of quietly cursing the Traffic Martyrs and like most people, Slider Hater called out to Hubby:
“You can’t just get in line! I’ve been waiting here for a half-hour.”
Hubby, having already gotten permission from the Traffic Martyrs around him, answered in typical Slider fashion, “Seriously, you’re not going to let me in? We’re all just trying to get out of here.”
Slider Hater: “Hey Buddy, I’ve got my kids in the car back here. Now you can do the right thing and let me go first, or you can do the wrong thing.”
Now, to be fair, Hubby had gotten permission from all the other cars around him,and Slider Hater had probably been sitting there for a while. Tempers were flaring. “It’s a rental,” Hubby yelled back. Daughter #1 cringed.
Hubby then attempted to merge. Misjudging the width of the rental car, Hubby took out the front of Slider Hater.
Yep, that was fender-bender #3 for our family in nine days.
Karma….freakin’ chipmunk.
Filed under: Middle Age, Sports | Tags: bourbon, election, family, Food, horse racing, humor, Ireland, Montpelier, south, southern, subourbonmom, swing state, tailgate, Virginia
Last weekend I was doing what God has ordained all good Virginians do in the fall: Tailgate.
But not at a football game—watching horses race around a mile-long course at James Madison’s home, Montpelier plantation. They were jumping bushes and fences no horse in its right mind would ever do if there wasn’t an annoying tiny-man on its back hitting it with a stick.
For any southern tailgate, the men don their uniforms of khaki pants, button down shirt with bowtie, and navy blue jacket. The women dress up in silly hats, colorful scarves and ridiculous boots no self-respecting horseman would ever wear anywhere near a barn. They spread their southern delicacies (i.e. ham biscuits, devilled eggs and pecan pie—not everybody can bring chips and salsa!) on fold-up tables covered with their best tablecloths and silver chafing dishes. The centerpiece is an opus of fall foliage around silver candelabra or a horse statue. And lets not forget the most important feature: the drink table. Bourbon, wine, rum, vodka, champagne, and Bloody Mary mix are all ready to be tumbled into Jefferson cups or, in our case, red solo cups (nothing but the best for my friends!).
It was a beautiful day, free of cell phones, election flyers, and pimple-faced doorbell ringers. Not a tramp stamp in sight.
Until, THE INTERVIEW, that is.
That’s right, folks, an Irish reporter from a television station had a camera man in tow, circulating among the drunks, asking what it is like to live in a swing state. And guess what? He interviewed me. Yep, the least political person who’d already had about three bourbon and gingers.
That went well.
It’s a little vague, but I’m pretty sure I offered him a drink about every other sentence. In my golden-hazed mind, I managed to string together this thought: Irish-guy-must-want-to-drink-so-be-a-good-hostess-and-offer. He politely declined each time.
He asked me what it is like to live in a swing state. Thankfully I choked back a comment about all the rumors of swinging couples in the area where I live. Or at least I hope I did. In my head, I planned to give an intelligent rant about how we all are huddled in our living rooms, cowering from the ringing phones and massive recycle pile of election mail, and that the electoral college is unnecessary in this electronic age.
I’m pretty sure what came out was something like “It sucks.”
Yep, I’m a voter. Mr. Kluge, my Government high school teacher would have been so proud.
I’m pretty sure you’ll never see that interview on the news in the U.S., except maybe on YouTube as one of those Dumb American posts, but I have done my part to ensure that the international world’s view of Americans is still intact.
The news guy never did take a drink. Maybe if I’d had some Guinness…
Subourbon Mom 