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: Bath and Body Works, Christmas, cologne, family, humor, Middle-Age, perfume, shopping, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens
What is it about the Bath & Body Works store that attracts the pre-teen crowd like Christmas shopping attracts bad drivers? It can’t be their low prices—seriously, $10 for a candle that smells like ashes from my fireplace? Or, $3 hand disinfectant that leaves your steering wheel smelling like stale cookies? This summer, one of the girls even purchased a candle called Mahogany Teakwood that, I swear, smells like Drakkar Noir. Remember that? Or, for you youngsters who may not be familiar with that scent from the 1980’s, the candle smells like teenage boy who’s just discovered cologne. I think I might borrow it, just for the trip down memory lane. Maybe I’ll watch Top Gun while I burn it.
All of these things I can live with, because it’s a place where my kids can shop that doesn’t sell clothes for hookers in teen-age sizes, and doesn’t get them all hopped-up on caffeine. And, being a pre-school teacher, I’m all for the disinfectant. I just wish they sold Lysol in flavors like Warm Vanilla Sugar and Japanese Cherry Blossom.
HOWEVER…I have come to loathe the scents the teen girls seem drawn to…the cloying, heavy sprays and lotions so sweet and thick, they must have been inspired by a mortuary trying to cover up the scent of formaldehyde. Sleepovers are the worst. In the morning, the downstairs has a miasma of “Twilight Woods” drifting amid the sleeping bags and piles of clothes and hairbrushes. You can practically see the blue haze, like a layer of smoke from a speak-easy in the 1920’s. I can only imagine this must be what a brothel would have smelled like before the age of deodorant and sanitation.
But, I think we may have finally emerged from the darkness. This morning, Daughter #2 came up to me with a glass of milk and said, “Mom, this glass smells like Bar-B-Que.” Now, normally, I would say dump it out because it’s 7:30, we’re already running late, and no I don’t want to smell your sour milk; but, since we’ve begun buying organic milk, I wasn’t about to toss out $4 worth of white gold. So I sniffed it while she held the glass up.
It smelled like her Bath & Body Works perfume.
“It’s your perfume,” I said.
“No it’s not. It’s BBQ.”
I took the glass away and gave it to Hubby. “Does this smell like BBQ to you?”
“Nope,” Hubby answered.
“Now sniff her hand.”
He did. “It’s your perfume, Cutie,” he said.
Horrified, Daughter #2 looked at us and shrieked, “You mean I smell like pork loin?”
Sorry, Bath and Brothel Works, but I think it’s safe to say we might be moving on to the other teen scents, probably with catchy marketing names “I Can Drive,” or “SnapChat Me.”
But I might go get one of those Mahogany Teakwood candles and put it in my stocking.
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: menopause, shopping, southern, subourbonmom, walmart
So the other day I went into Walmart, a store that I loathe and desperately need at the same time. And while I go to ridiculous lengths to avoid times when I know the Creepers are going to be there, I recently encountered a new species of person to avoid: the Menopausal Woman.
Now, to be fair, I am on the cusp of becoming one of these creatures. In fact, most of the women I work with are in various stages of morphing: there is a constant battle going on over the temperature and caffein intake in our office, as well as constant discussion about why the “muffin top” won’t go away no matter how many sit-ups we do. There is also very little sleeping going on. Many of my co-workers FaceBook each other at 3:00am because they are awake for no apparent reason.
So imagine my surprise, when I have paused during my stroll (okay, pushing cart quickly, jaw jutting, not looking right or left so as to avoid getting sucked into buying shoes that I know will blister my feet, but OMG they’re only $5!), down the aisles at the pajama section, and I suddenly realize my cart is gone. Not only is it gone, but my purse, cell phone and 20 cans of dog food went with it.
I know, I know, we’ve all been told not to leave our carts unattended, and to keep our purses on our bodies. But this is Southern Suburbia, the insulated tin of Cream Cheese America! I felt naked (no purse or cell phone) and stupid, turning in circles, stalking around the pajama racks as if I am looking for something to buy and not frantically wondering how long I’ve been wandering around without my cart and where the Hell did I put it, anyway?
Finally realizing someone has walked off with my things, I faced a dilemma: Do I
a) find an employee and tell them I lost my cart somewhere between the shoes (yes, I stopped) and the pajama section, and face their looks of pity,
b) borrow someone’s phone to call my husband to come get me and admit I’m too stupid to shop at Walmart, or
c) cruise around the store looking for the perpetrator, wasting valuable time when the professionals could be catching him/her?
Of course, I picked C.
Four aisles over, I spot her: Menopausal Woman, quilted purse slung over her shoulder, staring at her list with a pencil in her teeth. I cautiously approached, experience having told me never to startle such a creature, and said, “Excuse me, M’am, but I think you have my cart.”
Menopausal Woman looked with confusion at the piles of dog food, cat food and $50 worth of toiletries (more on that later), and turned about eight shades of red.
“Oh my Gawd, what is wrong with me?” she exclaimed.
We laughed it off and I took my cart back, chuckling to myself and feeling superior. About three minutes later, I see Menopausal Woman sidling up to me again.
“Excuse me, M’am,” she said, her face a bright fuchsia. “Where exactly did I steal your cart? I still can’t find mine!”
I answered her, knowing that someday I will be Menopausal Woman. The signs are all there: I walk into rooms and have no idea why; my rear end is no longer the coldest thing in our bedroom; I have been known to stand in the grocery store parking lot and have no idea where I parked. So, I took this as a sign: be nice, for you shall reap what you sow.
Now, off to Starbucks for my $3 hit of caffein. I didn’t sleep well last night.
Subourbon Mom 