Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: clothing, demons, ghosts, humor, Middle-Age, mom, Pat Robertson, possession, religion, shopping, south, southern, teenagers, teens
The other day, television evangelist Pat Robertson said demonic spirits can attach themselves to some objects. “I don’t think every sweater you get from Goodwill has demons in it,” he said, “but it isn’t going to hurt you any to rebuke any spirits that might attach themselves to those clothes.”
Well, that explains a couple of thongs and bras I wear that have minds of their own.
The idea that demons can attach themselves to objects isn’t new. I saw The Amityville Horror, so I get the whole haunted house thing. And Stephen King’s Christine was pretty creepy, even though the premise was a little weird. But really—clothes? And why did he mention clothes that are second-hand? What about clothes that are new? Can demons attach themselves to those, too?
Clearly, I’ve got to re-think my shopping strategy…no longer can I just peruse the stores and buy what I need as soon as it goes on sale. Now I’ve got to carry a small vial of Holy Water and a crucifix. I would love to wave any of those items in front of a pair of jeans I want to purchase and watch what happens. The pockets might turn into demonic eyes, glowing red, and the zipper would slide open, becoming a talking mouth, spewing curses and projectile vomiting on the sweaters carefully stacked below. I’ll bet I could get a really good discount after that! Just imagine strolling through the mall in your possessed jeans, as they rant and rave at all the other people walking by. Now that might even make shopping fun for those (like me) who somehow didn’t get that gene.
If what Mr. Robertson says is true, it would explain a lot of things in my life. I don’t necessarily think whatever possesses my thongs and bras are “demons;” I think they must be some kind of nomadic spirits, because these items seem to wander around my body of their own free will. In fact, I would venture a guess that these spirits are recently-passed Floridians, travelling north when the heat and humidity gets to be too much. Pantyhose spirits would be Snowbirds that migrate south. They would also be male spirits, because no female would make something already uncomfortable even worse.
Sports bras are probably more likely to be possessed by actual demons. They look innocuous enough, but the minute you try to take them off after a workout, they curl up and cling to you like a succubus from a bad science fiction movie. To remove one, short of sprinkling it with Holy Water, you have to contort yourself into a pretzel, nearly dislocating a shoulder in the process.
There must also be a whole troop of young, playful spirits that think its fun to move things from room to room. They are especially fond of concealing reading glasses, socks, earrings and t.v. remotes. For them, it must be a never-ending game of hide-and-seek.
There are teenaged spirits as well. These you could probably call demons, if, like, the mood is right. They favor, like, electronic gadgets, and, like, computers. One minute, these gadgets are like, entertaining, helpful and cooperative; the next, they, like, go dark for no reason at all, refuse to help, and skulk around with one glaring, electric eye.
So maybe Mr. Robertson is right. But I would rather have a family of “demons” in my things than face the fact that I can’t remember where I put anything, I’m technology-repellant, and my body is changing so much these days that nothing fits anymore!
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: clothing, humor, Mammary Jack in the Box, Middle-Age, muffin top, Plato's Closet, southern, tank tops
There’s something about hitting your forties that stirs up a civil war inside your psyche, or at least it did for me. Part of me (a large part) is vain. I still strive to keep the muffin top from lopping completely over my waistband, I hide the gray streaks under a veneer of bleach, and I apply ridiculously over-priced creams to a face that I like to tell my kids shows “I had a fun life.” I go to the gym and flail around on the “I-limp-and-drool” every other day. I even have a pill tray so I can keep track of my vitamins, glucosamine, calcium and allergy meds. At least I’m not on the cholesterol/diabetes/heart medicine train just yet. And, for the most part, I’m pretty happy with how I look.
But I’m beginning to have some setbacks.
At the beginning of the summer I took my daughters to a consignment store called Plato’s Closet. This store is great, stocking name brand clothes for teenagers (and those hopeful they might still be able to wear them) at deeply discounted prices. In fact, I have gotten a few J.Crew and Banana Republic shirts there myself. This time, however, I made a grave mistake. I tried on the tank tops.
While my daughters flipped patiently among the racks, I snuck to the back of the store and spied several cute tank tops that weren’t too young, or too slutty, or splattered with Aeropostale across the front. With a gleam in my eye and a prance in my comfortable mom-approved New Balance sneakers, I dove into the changing room to try them on.
Guess what? They didn’t fit.
Shocker.
Apparently, the makers of teen-age tank tops long ago realized something I had not: Teen-age boobs are not located in the same place on your body as “I’ve had two kids” boobs. In fact, there is anywhere from a half-inch to a THREE-inch difference!
So, still innocent of this bitter pill I would soon have to swallow (right after I choke down another calcium pill because you have to take them three times a day), I tried pulling the tank tops down, only to have them ride up again until they looked like some awkward, Victorian-cut nightie. My boobs were happily bouncing beneath the seam, making me look like a dog who’s had a few too many puppies. So I tried another one that looked more forgiving. With a vague feeling of desperation I made one last try. I took each boob in hand and tried to tuck it into the empty space in the shirt where they should rest. They looked great until I moved, then out popped each one, like a crazy mammary Jack-in-the-Box.
And don’t get me started on the jeans! Thankfully I had sense enough to know they were never gonna fit my forty-year-old ass. I mean, look at how they fit on the teenagers. Low-rise waists can’t hide their hormone-in-the-chicken-and-milk muffin tops, and they certainly didn’t make the tramp stamp folded in half on their lower backs look any better, although I have to admit there is something mildly entertaining about trying to figure out what the stamp actually is when you can only see half of it. Half a butterfly or angel looks a lot like a “W”, which I assume stands for WIDE–hey, if the tattoo fits… Anyway, if fourteen-year-old girls can’t wear those jeans and look good, you know an ass that’s sunk two inches and flattened like a pancake isn’t going to fit.
But I took heart in knowing that:
a) Pretty soon I’ll be like my older brother and will just give up entirely (he admits this–this is not intended as an insult!). Then he won’t be able to make jokes about my not knowing what color my hair actually is.
b) I will never have to worry about whether I have on my good undies (you know, the ones where the elastic waistband is still covered by cotton) when I wear my mom-waisted jeans, and
c) I can afford to buy the good bras and Spanx that put everything (temporarily) where it should be. Deal with that, Teenagers Who Still Have To Bum Money Off Your Parents! I may not have your bodies, but I only have a few more years to fight the good fight. You’re just entering the ring.
Subourbon Mom 