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: Parenting | Tags: blizzard, diary, family, humor, mom, preschool, prison, snow, south, southern, subourbonmom, toddlers, weather
In light of the coming Snow-Mageddon, I thought you might enjoy the following diary, apparently written by a five-year-old “cellmate” during a snow/ice storm that kept him out of school for a week.
Day 1: Snow and ice storms have suspended the education-release programs until further notice, and have shut off all possibilities of tunneling out–the ground is too hard. The Day Warden, an attractive woman who smells like coffee and flowers, emerged as the Night Warden left in what is the only vehicle available for transporting us prisoners in snow. She has begun spending all hours with the television on, waiting for news of a break in the weather.
My younger cellmate and I are edgy and excited. During the storm, the Day Warden allowed us to put on our outside uniforms (puffy jacket, mittens and boots) and go into the exercise yard. I tried tunneling to escape, but broke one shovel before the Day Warden declared it was too cold and returned us to our cell. It took twenty minutes for her to change us back into our regular uniforms (Garanimal pants and shirt, designed to humiliate us and keep us from desiring to go out in public). She broke the rule about using foul language, but I guess for Wardens there isn’t any punishment. Good behavior (she didn’t see me tunneling) was rewarded with hot chocolate.
Day 2: The Night Warden returned last evening and brought with him dire predictions of more snow and ice. I try to keep my hopes up for an opportunity to escape, but it’s looking less likely each day. The Day Warden now alternates the news on television with mind-altering shows to mentally break us down. A small, yellow sponge and a pink starfish are especially effective. I can’t think or move when they are on. My cellmate has created his own indoor skating rink and glides on it in his socks. He has been to the infirmary twice for an ice pack after falling on the hardwood floors.
Day 3: The walls are getting closer. Made three shivs out of a pick-up-stick, a toothpick and a broken tinker toy. Left them in the couch cushions for the Day Warden to sit/step on. Results better than hoped for. Sent to solitary confinement, but totally worth it. Hoping Night Warden will bring in more opportunities for weapons. Star Wars and Transformer brands are preferred.
Day 4: My cellmate and I are climbing the walls. Literally. And the bookcase, the counters and all the squishy furniture. The walls also display prisoner artwork depicting our captivity—showing Harold and the Purple Crayon movie was not a smart idea on part of the Day Warden. Her response was “art therapy,” but making the gingerbread house was a colossal failure. The Day Warden didn’t know regular icing won’t hold the walls or roof together. My cellmate ran in circles after consuming fistfuls of “mortar.”
Solitary confinement again for giving cellmate “prison cut” with Day Warden’s sewing scissors.
Day 5: Food running low. Spent two hours in solitary for stealing food from cellmate. Meals now consisting of only canned vegetables, crackers and toast. Pretty sure mind-altering drugs are being given to us under the guise of “Benadryl.” Having trouble staying awake. Day Warden has begun carrying around a sippy cup filled with something she calls “Mommy Juice.”
Day 6: Beginning to fear for Day Warden’s sanity. She has begun to smell, and has changed from her normal uniform of jeans and a shirt with buttons to a Garanimals outfit similar to ours, but without the animals. The Day Warden also sent herself to solitary confinement. Heard the television blaring, but got no answer when I knocked. The Night Warden started his shift and tried to talk the Day Warden into coming out, but she locked her door and shouted “I can’t do this anymore! Shovel the damned driveway so I can get my car out, or there’s going to be less people in The House.” I hope she didn’t keep the shivs.
Day 7: The Night Warden announced that mind-altering television and drugs would be suspended until further notice. The exercise yard was cleared this morning, and the Night Warden stayed for day shift; the Day Warden took the specialized vehicle for the day. While she was gone, the Night Warden instituted a work release program. We worked in the laundry, the exercise yard (shoveling), and the kitchen. Sent to infirmary and solitary again after testing knives. Kitchen duty suspended. Mind-altering drugs and television resumed.
Day 8: Education-release program resumed today. The Day Warden sang as she drove.
Filed under: Exercise, Parenting, Sports | Tags: cheering, family, humor, kids, love, mom, parenting, soccer, sports
It’s the end of soccer season, at least the outdoor variety. Thanksgiving is over, and with it our three-day respite from two-hour practices, smelly cleats and hairbands strewn about the house. So, to honor the occasion, I wrote this poem to let Daughters #1 & 2 know that I GET IT. I just can’t help being their biggest (and loudest) cheerleader. If they’ve learned nothing from living with me all these years, it’s that I do everything with enthusiasm (just look at the circle of food around my plate when we go to a nice restaurant—waiters LOVE me).
A Soccer Player’s Prayer
I huddle in the corner, away from other players.
Please, don’t cheer for me, I think, please answer a soccer prayer.
I’m not afraid of getting hurt when the ball is kicked my way.
I’d love to score the winning goal and brag I saved the day.
But there’s one thing I can’t stand—it has me quaking in my cleats.
I shake inside my shin guards, the laces tremble on my feet.
What was that? Did someone call my name?
I’d know that voice on any field. Oh no! My mom is here—she came!
I break into a clammy sweat whenever she looks my way.
Please don’t pass it to me, she’ll just yell while I’m trying to play.
The ball whizzes past me as she plunks down her chair.
Someone trips on my frozen toes while I can only stop and stare.
How will I live it down? Oh, the Horror, oh the shame!
How can I prevent her from screaming out my name?
I hate it when she does that–it’s obnoxious, rude and loud.
It’s humiliating and debilitating, and it bugs the soccer crowd.
But how do I tell her? It will only make her sad.
After all, she loves to watch me, though her screaming makes me mad.
So I slouch here on the sideline, desperate to disappear.
Maybe someday she’ll stop her shouting, and like a normal mom, just cheer.
Someday, girls, your mom might just make it through “Silent Saturday….”
Subourbon Mom 