(no subject)
Yesterday after selling some stuff to Bookman's I went over to Last Chance. This is a bargain store I have heard much about, and I also had some stuff in mind to donate, so off I went to investigate. To my surprise, Last Chance is located in a "mall" that is really just a depressing shopping center interconnected by some hallways that are littered with kiosks run by bored-looking middle aged persons of indeterminate gender (seriously. it was like willy wonka's chocolate factory, only everyone was depressed, and no one wore pretty colors or sang songs. they just played solitaire). Upon entering the store, I knew right away I was in a shopper's paradise. Stacks and stacks of ridiculously cheap department-store-rejected merchandise! Not only that, all the visible signs said things like $2.47! $.57! I headed straight for the shoe racks (which took up half the store), in search of some sneakers. And boy, did I find some sneakers, right there waiting for me. My size, really comfortable, appropriately offensive colors, moderately fashionable (okay, I might be exaggerating there) and all this for the low low price of $20.99.
Don't worry, everyone. This isn't just some corny ad. This is the moving story of my delight, and then subsequent disenchantment with this miraculous bargain store.
Having discovered my wonderful shoes, I decided to look around to see what else this store had to offer me. Bargain shirts? Skirts? or dare I hope, perhaps a bargain silk bathrobe? As I browsed, I discovered that Last Chance offered me all this and more. Armed with potential purchases, I found my way to the dressing room. Now, the dressing room there has six or seven rooms that have nice private curtains, and then a little area for impatient people to just go ahead and strip. And stripping they were. I was assaulted by several unpleasant things when I had the misfortune to turn the corner and go into that dressing room, the worst of them being the four extremely fat women struggling into neon spandex. I kid you not. Neon pink spandex workout clothing is among the bargains offered at Last Chance. I have nothing against overweight people. Mind you, I'm not a model myself, but I'm talking excess of 300 pounds, how on earth do you fit yourself into your minivan unpleasantness here, not to mention the fact they were considering inflicting themselves in spandex upon the rest of the world. Secondly, I encountered a woman who sounded exactly- and I do mean EXACTLY- like Fran whatsherface from that horrible sitcome The Nanny. She was cackling- that is the only word for it- as she put this poor baby into a pink silky nightgown six times too big for it and cooed to the sour-looking girl next to her "why, this will be just DARLING!" The baby squirmed. But The Nanny held on tighter and forced its other little hand through the robe. The lacy, pink, ribbon-bedorned cuff. I turned around and decided to wait for a dressing room with a curtain, nauseated by the Nanny, the pink, and the fat rolls. Pink has it's place. but that place is not on spandex, nor is it on sobby little ugly garbage-pail-kid-faced babies.
So there I am, considering that perhaps this place isn't the paradise it was cracked up to be, waiting for a dressing room. and waiting. and waiting. enduring the screeches of the Nanny and the grunts of those women struggling out of their spandex ("here, let me help you with that- ow MA, why you always gotta get in my FACE? i can DO it oh shit, i think i ripped it"). nobody is willing to give up a dressing room. i am beginning to suspect there aren't actual women in there, but automated robots to keep customers out, and besides i have to pee, so i abandon my clothes, grab my awesomely awful shoes, and head for the checkout line.
At this place, which is one huge line, two checkout persons, you get called to the next available checkout. Mentally hopping from one foot to the other as I struggle to restrain my bladder, I notice the girl behind me has also managed to find some cute clothing, and is looking around herself with equal disgust. then i do a double take. Girl! This woman is older than my mother, and has cleverly disguised it with about a pound of face powder, a leopard print skirt, and overly dyed hair. She is fingering the (again) pink flip-flops that lie discarded on the top of a clothing rack. Actually, the line to the checkout is littered with discarded purchases, things that people stood long enough in line with to have second thoughts about. Two people behind me, there are two girls, one of whom has the hugest ass I've ever seen, not fat, just BIG, and a guy who are talking so loudly the people in mervyn's can probably hear them. The snatch of conversation I have the misfortune to overhear goes something like the following:
"Honeychile, put that down! You ain't no pretty woman!"
"No, but that movie is inspiration! See, a hooker CAN go an' git hersself married to a nice rich boy and have a family and be normal. i'm a eggsample too! well, 'cept i'm not really married yet, but it's comin'!"
*insert loud whoops of laughter*
"youse better hang on to those shoes acause theys gonna gitchoo yo' may-an!"
And so on. now to describe the shoes that were agonna git her a may-an. These shoes were of the new style that has become so popular, the pointy dressy variety. Now, I am aware I have already explained that I myself was waiting to purchase some fantastically horrific shoes. However, in my mind, there are two kinds of bad: the kind that's so bad it's cool and I love it, and the kind that screams "i found this attractive! kill me before I contribute further to the gene pool!" These shoes that she was holding were, as I said, long and pointy, decorated with a festive pattern, festive, that is, if you were going to a chess match, maybe with homicide on your mind. They were checkerboard patterned in black and white, with giant, random splotches of- yes, you guessed it- bright pink on the sides. Asymetrically. As Heather will confirm, asymmetry makes my teeth itch, sometimes to the point where I have to injure somebody if it's unfixable. This was unfixable. The only thing to do was avert my gaze and focus my attention elsewhere. Where else? Maybe on the overly tanned, platinum blonde woman in her early 50s at least, dressed festively in white pants a size too small, red espadrilles, and a lime green wife beater, who was gabbing so loudly on her cell phone (its ring was a really irritating song) you might think she was in a bad spy movie, trying to be overheard by the CIA as she engaged in a dangerous conversation about the killer's plans for tomorrow. However, the killer's plans weren't all that exciting, they seemed to involve asking where the Hummer was, and saying that yellow was definitely a great color, oh, it has adorable sparkels and even a cat on it too? Oh my, you don't say, Aunt Hatty will just ADORE it!
I was thinking what all of you are if you've read this far. Kill me now.
Don't worry. Just as I was considering ditching the shoes and leaving, I was chosen, I was called, called to the checkout. I did not hear angels, on the sound of a grizzled old man asking if I'd found everything okay. And the swipe of my credit card (goodbye, $22, well spent). I sign my receipt and I am free, free to leave this place, this place that enticed me inside with its $3 bathing suits and $10 running shoes but then served only to remind me of how fucking annoying people are, especially middle-aged women with nothing better to do then sit around, whine to their friends, eat a ton, and spend money. The epitome of consumer.
Have you ever noticed that when you spend all your time in school, or with your friends, you can forget that these people not only exist, they populate a majority of the country? The people with shitty dead-end jobs who are counting the days until retirement, too tired to go out, too fleshy to wear spandex, too lazy to do anything other than watch reruns and complain about their health problems. As my therapist so cheerfully said the other day, without them, we couldn't have our existence! I stopped liking her quite as much when she said that...but it's so true. I hate these people and feel slightly guilty and arrogant at the same time. After all, I too am excited by the bargain shopping.
Don't worry, everyone. This isn't just some corny ad. This is the moving story of my delight, and then subsequent disenchantment with this miraculous bargain store.
Having discovered my wonderful shoes, I decided to look around to see what else this store had to offer me. Bargain shirts? Skirts? or dare I hope, perhaps a bargain silk bathrobe? As I browsed, I discovered that Last Chance offered me all this and more. Armed with potential purchases, I found my way to the dressing room. Now, the dressing room there has six or seven rooms that have nice private curtains, and then a little area for impatient people to just go ahead and strip. And stripping they were. I was assaulted by several unpleasant things when I had the misfortune to turn the corner and go into that dressing room, the worst of them being the four extremely fat women struggling into neon spandex. I kid you not. Neon pink spandex workout clothing is among the bargains offered at Last Chance. I have nothing against overweight people. Mind you, I'm not a model myself, but I'm talking excess of 300 pounds, how on earth do you fit yourself into your minivan unpleasantness here, not to mention the fact they were considering inflicting themselves in spandex upon the rest of the world. Secondly, I encountered a woman who sounded exactly- and I do mean EXACTLY- like Fran whatsherface from that horrible sitcome The Nanny. She was cackling- that is the only word for it- as she put this poor baby into a pink silky nightgown six times too big for it and cooed to the sour-looking girl next to her "why, this will be just DARLING!" The baby squirmed. But The Nanny held on tighter and forced its other little hand through the robe. The lacy, pink, ribbon-bedorned cuff. I turned around and decided to wait for a dressing room with a curtain, nauseated by the Nanny, the pink, and the fat rolls. Pink has it's place. but that place is not on spandex, nor is it on sobby little ugly garbage-pail-kid-faced babies.
So there I am, considering that perhaps this place isn't the paradise it was cracked up to be, waiting for a dressing room. and waiting. and waiting. enduring the screeches of the Nanny and the grunts of those women struggling out of their spandex ("here, let me help you with that- ow MA, why you always gotta get in my FACE? i can DO it oh shit, i think i ripped it"). nobody is willing to give up a dressing room. i am beginning to suspect there aren't actual women in there, but automated robots to keep customers out, and besides i have to pee, so i abandon my clothes, grab my awesomely awful shoes, and head for the checkout line.
At this place, which is one huge line, two checkout persons, you get called to the next available checkout. Mentally hopping from one foot to the other as I struggle to restrain my bladder, I notice the girl behind me has also managed to find some cute clothing, and is looking around herself with equal disgust. then i do a double take. Girl! This woman is older than my mother, and has cleverly disguised it with about a pound of face powder, a leopard print skirt, and overly dyed hair. She is fingering the (again) pink flip-flops that lie discarded on the top of a clothing rack. Actually, the line to the checkout is littered with discarded purchases, things that people stood long enough in line with to have second thoughts about. Two people behind me, there are two girls, one of whom has the hugest ass I've ever seen, not fat, just BIG, and a guy who are talking so loudly the people in mervyn's can probably hear them. The snatch of conversation I have the misfortune to overhear goes something like the following:
"Honeychile, put that down! You ain't no pretty woman!"
"No, but that movie is inspiration! See, a hooker CAN go an' git hersself married to a nice rich boy and have a family and be normal. i'm a eggsample too! well, 'cept i'm not really married yet, but it's comin'!"
*insert loud whoops of laughter*
"youse better hang on to those shoes acause theys gonna gitchoo yo' may-an!"
And so on. now to describe the shoes that were agonna git her a may-an. These shoes were of the new style that has become so popular, the pointy dressy variety. Now, I am aware I have already explained that I myself was waiting to purchase some fantastically horrific shoes. However, in my mind, there are two kinds of bad: the kind that's so bad it's cool and I love it, and the kind that screams "i found this attractive! kill me before I contribute further to the gene pool!" These shoes that she was holding were, as I said, long and pointy, decorated with a festive pattern, festive, that is, if you were going to a chess match, maybe with homicide on your mind. They were checkerboard patterned in black and white, with giant, random splotches of- yes, you guessed it- bright pink on the sides. Asymetrically. As Heather will confirm, asymmetry makes my teeth itch, sometimes to the point where I have to injure somebody if it's unfixable. This was unfixable. The only thing to do was avert my gaze and focus my attention elsewhere. Where else? Maybe on the overly tanned, platinum blonde woman in her early 50s at least, dressed festively in white pants a size too small, red espadrilles, and a lime green wife beater, who was gabbing so loudly on her cell phone (its ring was a really irritating song) you might think she was in a bad spy movie, trying to be overheard by the CIA as she engaged in a dangerous conversation about the killer's plans for tomorrow. However, the killer's plans weren't all that exciting, they seemed to involve asking where the Hummer was, and saying that yellow was definitely a great color, oh, it has adorable sparkels and even a cat on it too? Oh my, you don't say, Aunt Hatty will just ADORE it!
I was thinking what all of you are if you've read this far. Kill me now.
Don't worry. Just as I was considering ditching the shoes and leaving, I was chosen, I was called, called to the checkout. I did not hear angels, on the sound of a grizzled old man asking if I'd found everything okay. And the swipe of my credit card (goodbye, $22, well spent). I sign my receipt and I am free, free to leave this place, this place that enticed me inside with its $3 bathing suits and $10 running shoes but then served only to remind me of how fucking annoying people are, especially middle-aged women with nothing better to do then sit around, whine to their friends, eat a ton, and spend money. The epitome of consumer.
Have you ever noticed that when you spend all your time in school, or with your friends, you can forget that these people not only exist, they populate a majority of the country? The people with shitty dead-end jobs who are counting the days until retirement, too tired to go out, too fleshy to wear spandex, too lazy to do anything other than watch reruns and complain about their health problems. As my therapist so cheerfully said the other day, without them, we couldn't have our existence! I stopped liking her quite as much when she said that...but it's so true. I hate these people and feel slightly guilty and arrogant at the same time. After all, I too am excited by the bargain shopping.