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: 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…
Filed under: Parenting | Tags: Cotillion, Dancing, humor, south, southern, teenagers
Could someone please explain to me why the ritual of sending Southern “tweens” on the cusp of womanhood to Cotillion still exists? Don’t get me wrong. Daughter #2 is doing it, albeit under protest. And like her fellow future debutantes (in this case, girls who will someday go to college like we did, drink the same swill and do just as many walk-of-shames as we did, and then come live at home), she will be wearing the requisite white gloves, appropriately-cut dress somewhere close to her knees, and an old wrap of mine because let’s face it–every teenager wants to look like their Great Aunt Elspeth.
Now, as I understand it, Cotillion began as a country dance in France in the 1800s, which enabled partners to flirt and socialize as they danced. So here we are, 200 years later, attempting to provide our children with the opportunity to socialize. As if school, FaceBook, Twitter, InstaGram and the four others they think I don’t know anything about, aren’t enough. Flirting and socializing? Have these people ever been to a dance these days? I’ve seen less bumping and grinding in the final two laps of a NASCAR race. I think we’re WAY beyond flirting. (Of course, my Sweet Angel would never do such a thing).
Also, according to tradition, the higher the social status, the more elegant the event used to be. Social status? Let’s see…how to address that one. Since we are, to quote comedian Louis CK, “in a suburb of Walmart,” I’m not sure how much elegance we can truly hope to have. White gloves will only cover up so many Sally Hansen nails and dirt accumulated in barns and soccer/field hockey/lacrosse dirt. And there’s also no hiding the multiple ear piercings and happy faces drawn all over their arms in pen by their friends.
Nor can we disguise the difference in attitude from our Delicate Flowers’ ancestors. Daughter #2, who is twelve years old, 5’6” and 100 pounds wet, got matched up with the shortest boy there. Of course. Short Boy’s friends, other twelve-year-old Future Fraternity Bothers practicing for pledge week, teased Short Boy, saying, “You’re so much shorter than she is!” (Duh!) Daughter #2, a delicate southern flower for sure, flipped her hair and tossed back to them, “You’re so much more annoying than he is!”
That’s my girl! Yep, the gloves are coming off.
Of course, the dresses have rules too. For example, nothing strapless, and they must come just above the knee. I would like to know, have any of the women who organize this thing ever tried to shop for dresses for a tween? The dresses available that aren’t from Lilli Pulitzer, Nordstrom or straight out of the Preppy Handbook (remember that?) look like clothing for hookers, pirates or hippies circa 1972. No spaghetti straps? Knee-length? Really? Well, I guess we better head on over to Pennsylvania and borrow some dresses from the Amish. Maybe those girls who “Broke Amish” won’t need them.
There are a couple of bright spots: on the nights you don’t have to drive, there are two or three hours of blissful peace and quiet after the Bath and Body Works brothel fog has evaporated. And, if you are the driver that night, you will probably learn an enormous amount of information (you are, however, supposed to report back to the other moms what was said), like whose kid had sweaty palms, whose kid smelled weird, and which girls managed to arrange to dance with their “boyfriends.” The flip side? Who gets to be the lucky one to tell Sally’s mom that Sally and John were seen kissing at school? Or that little Jenny put raccoon rings of eyeliner on as soon as she left the house?
On the night I have to drive, I plan on dropping off the girls, hiding out in the closest StarBucks, and turning the radio up REALLY loud on the way home.
In sweat pants.
Subourbon Mom 