Tales of Retail Horror: Chapter 3

When I was a little girl, I had a Barbie doll or two. I wasn’t sickly fascinated by her triangular torpedo breasts or her slim waist, or her tiny pointy feet that wouldn’t say in the miniscule molded plastic pumps. I was most fascinated with her face and hair. Ignoring my Barbie’s untimely stylistic death by kiddie scissors, wielded by an overcurious 8 year old, she was perfect. Barbie had a perfect heart shaped face, crystalline blue eyes, and bright pink lips molded perfectly into a smile over her line of white teeth. (At the time, I hadn’t realized that color was not actually found in nature.) Looking back, as a pasty pale, gray-eyed, curly-haired brunette, I suppose I can understand the appeal of Barbie. How the prettiest girls in school had the same perfect blonde hair and blue eyes and heart shaped faces. And I wanted so desperately to be like them. That need still existed to some degree, after spending 2 semesters sitting across from the most stunningly beautiful girl I’ve seen in my life.

But when I started working in a retail haven for the wealthy and bored wives of Connecticut that started to change. Every day, women over the age of 40 teeter anorexically into the store, asking do I please, please have a size 0 I can find for them? They tug their extra small halters over their shoulders, exposing faces full of icy disdain. And maybe they really are icily disdainful women, but in most cases, I think it’s because they’ve Botoxed their faces out of commission. They still fit the Barbie image, though most have enhanced it through their years of being married to their wealthy husbands. (In my defense, I have nothing against marrying wealthy. I’ve been told to marry a nice Jewish doctor for years.) Their busts are pert, and frighteningly round, their faces tanned to the exact same shades. Their blonde highlights are identical, and the flick of their wrists as they lay down their AmExes has clearly been practiced.

And I was jealous of Barbie? In a town full of women that look like Barbies who have been left in the toaster oven for a few minutes too long, my self-confidence has both dissapeared and skyrocketed. More the latter in the past few days. I am happy to share with you I am 5’0” tall. I weigh 115 pounds. I wear a size 4. When I’m happy, my nose crinkles, and when I cry, my mascara runs. I have scars and bruises all over resulting from years of klutziness. When I turn 40, I hope everyone of my wrinkles tells a story. I have pale skin, gray eyes, and brown hair.

And I am far more beautiful than any Barbie I’ve seen.

I’m Smarter Than You! (Kinda…)

I have a great many hobbies and pastimes to keep myself entertained. When it comes time to impress, I whip out a favorite pastime of mine, crossword puzzles.

“Oh, you do crossword puzzles?” the to-be-impressed party will say.

“Why yes, I do. I love doing crossword puzzles.” I’ll reply demurely.

“Not the New York Times crossword puzzles!” They’ll say, a note of being-impressed in their voices.

“Actually, I have a few NY Times crossword puzzles that I completed hanging in my cubicle!” I’ll reply, faintly boastful.

“Really! That’s great! Have you ever finished a Sunday?” They’ll ask, clearly impressed.

“I’ve never finished a Tuesday.” I’ll say, a broad smile on my face, tossing my bangs out of my eyes, hoping in vain my pearly white and theatrics will distract them from my answer.

It never does. It never does.

My Passage to Adulthood

Every culture in every country in every part of this world has some sort of tradition that brings a child into adulthood. In some countries it’s ritualistic tattooing, in others it is being bathed in corn seeds, and in others its confirmation. Technically, according to my Jewish heritage, I passed into adulthood on Friday, December 29, 2000 at my Bat Mitzvah. In my personal opinion, I passed into adulthood Monday, June 13, 2006.

This morning was marked by the acquisition through trial and error of an important life skill. This bright spring morning, I learned how to use a coffee maker.

My father was out of town, and my mother recovering from surgery, thus leaving me to forage desperately for myself, and to prepare breakfast for my grandfather. Seeing as I’d spent a full year being fed by unhappy looking people in red dining hall uniforms, fending for myself was not an idea with which I was accustomed. Still, I put on a brave face, and cheerily went to set up the table. I had prepared everything perfectly, except for one, daunting task. Making coffee. My mother had told me simply: Put in the filter, the coffee grinds, then fill the coffee pot with water to the silver line, and add that water to the coffee maker. I was thrilled that it was so simple; any more would have surpassed my capacity for understanding. So, I put in the filter. I added the coffee. I filled the pot with water. And I poured the water in.

Directly into the filter.

“[Egads]*!”, I exclaimed, as the water rapidly fell through to the bottom of the coffee maker. I was at an impasse. I held the rapidly emptying coffee pot above the coffee maker as water gushed through the filter. Finally, in all my infinite intelligence, I thought, “Cleanliness be damned!” and placed the coffee pot back into the coffee maker. But it was too late.

Brown diluted sick looking water had puddle up at the bottom of the machine and all over the counter. I looked stealthily around me, sure that my mother had seen my mistake through a secret hole in the floor, and was laughing at me. I sheepishly wiped up my mess. Tail between my legs, I crept upstairs, and said quietly, “Mom, I think I broke the coffee maker.”

She inquired as to why I believed this, and after my brief explanation, she stared at me in disbelief. “Sarah,” she said shaking her head, “Sarah, you are supposed to put the water in the well on the side of the coffee machine. The triangle. With the numbers inside it.”

In my defense, I am much too short to see that well from the proper angle, but really, the answer seemed so obvious. Had I really thought the water would magically stay in the filter until the machine had turned on? Yes, yes dear readers, I had.

In my great aversion towards coffee and tea, I have found that hot chocolate requires no more preparation that heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder and hot water. Coffee on the other hand, coffee requires a filter, and a well, and common sense.

And common sense, who uses that anymore, anyway?

*Actual phrase uttered has been replaced to preserve blogger’s dignity.

Quoting My Dad

“So you’re in this ocean, and there are some really fucked up fish…” – My Dad describing a situation at the place I work with some unkind folks.

Tales of Retail Horror: Part 2

In 5th grade, the boys and girls of every classroom were split up and taught about puberty and the human anatomy. In middle school, the boys (and girls) discovered the Victoria’s Secret catalog. In high school, our burgeoning, sponge-like minds discovered pornography. With these ample educational supplies available to us, one would think that all lessons in the female anatomy would be complete.

This assumption is clearly the sign of a feeble mind that has not worked in women’s clothing retail. Exposed mainly to the leggy, lean and curvy, buxom women that cover our magazines and television sets, the concept of unpleasant visuals on the human body was completely foreign to my naive eighteen year-old-mind. That is, of course, until I started working in the wardrobing (dressing) rooms at work.

There are two ways I was so brutally exposed to these unpleasantries. Let’s take a dive into those, shall we?

Number 1: You may be tan, blonde, and insanely stacked, but would you kindly wait until I leave the dressing room to remove your shirt?
I have already written about this particular woman in my first chapter on retail horror, but I feel it needs revisiting. I’m thrilled for you, ma’am, that you are so comfortable with your body. Women and girls across the world would kill for that self-confidence. So I applaud your self confidence. Unfortunately, not all of us are a. comfortable with our own bodies or b. comfortable seeing your chubby belly. Understandable, ma’am, you are were in a rush, but the 2 seconds it would have taken me to back out and shut the door would hardly have detracted from your fancy dinner plans. So, as a general tip, to everyone, some of your sales associates are prudes, and don’t want to see you naked. Shocking as that may seem Ms. BlondeTanWealthy, not everyone wants to see you naked.

Number 2: The accidental nipslip.
The title of this section is no even remotely as sexy as it sounds. (Assuming you’re into TiVoing nipples during large sporting events.) But not all the women who frequent the store in which I work are blessed with perfect points, if you will. An admittedly thin and well muscled middle aged woman came into the store looking for an outfit for a dinner at a country club. (That night). She was in a terrible rush, and was also terribly fickle. So for a period of time, I dashed from the floor to the wardrobing room and back handing the woman shirts and sweaters through a half open door. She bent over, her perfect flat, size 2 abs evident. But then, I saw it. In the rapid change, a certain undergarment, and a certain item had decided to breathe the fresh air. And it was not normal. And by normal, I mean the Victoria’s Secret’s standards to which I am accustomed. However, there is only so much a girl can take. And that, unusual item, tipped the scale. So Ms. OldLadywithahotBody please, for the love of everything good in this world, just wear the right bra when trying on clothes.

Next chapter in Tales of Retail Horror, we shall address women who overstay their welcome.

J’adore CT

It’s rained a few times since I have returned home from school. That warm, sticky rain that can’t decide if it wants to drizzle or downpour, so it sticks somewhere in between. I despise rain like that. Because there’s so much power in nature that you want to see some display of it. That’s why I love thunderstorms. I’m sitting crosslegged on the floor right now on an upstairs floor in the house, in front of a large picture window, and I’m watching the rain fall. The thunder is literally right above the house. It’s raining so hard you can no longer see drops on the window, but just steady streams covering the entire thing.

Thunderstorms aren’t really anything more than nature, but with my new English major knowledge, I’m going to have to go ahead and analyze it a bit. Thunderstorms are the reminder that there is still force and power and glory in nature. That no matter what man does, nothing can prevent a lightning bolt from striking. Even in the most hum-drum moments, the most painfully stressful moments, those points in life when it feels like gravity weighs especially heavy on you and the walls are closing in, the thunder comes and the world is suddenly a much bigger place. It’s a cool down, for nature and for the soul.