I was out shopping today looking for new work clothes. For the first time, I figured I would venture from the junior section and try out the women’s department. Upon my arrival to the dark side, I realize with such resounding clarity why women have such terrible self images. It totally starts at the department stores!
I first went to the petite department. This is apparently where little people buy their clothing. I swear, Santa’s elves would have a tough go trying to find clothes in that section – they are so small! This section is dedicated to doll clothes – complete with frills, bows, lace and many other intricate details. I tried on a pair of slacks and they were perfect. As shorts. This was clearly not the Dacia department. I wandered a little further.
The next department was the WOMEN’s section. I capitalize because unlike the petite section, the WOMEN’s section has nothing frilly or intricate about it. The word WOMEN is prominately displayed on the biggest wall. Apparently, you are not a WOMAN until you have shopped in this area. It’s all about getting your WOMAN ass into some clothes. Period. The junior department is just looking friendlier by the minute. I decide to try on some pants.
I find my size, on sale, and head to the dressing room. Now, I am a junior size 7 so I choose a WOMAN size 8. Junior sizes are odd and WOMAN sizes are even numbers. I round up to give myself beer drinking room. Now, in the junior section, I think they assume all juniors are around 5’5”. Well, in the WOMEN section, they assume after 7th grade you’ll hit another growth spurt and shoot up about another 15 feet and therefore your pants need to be extra long. I am not a tall woman, but I’m not a little person either. These pants must have had a good extra two feet tacked onto the end of them. Great, I think, not so much of a “sale” when I have to pay to have the damn things tailored.
I decide to buy the long pants because I need them. As I make my way to pay for my find, I realize that in the front of the store is the plus size section. Now, I am sure that every woman who is overweight just loves to go to the front of this effing store to go through the tents that they have displayed on hangers. The clothing in this section isn’t even pretty! Do these idiots think if you’re overweight you don’t want to look good? I tell you, only a man would come up with this marketing strategy. To top it off, the women in the life size displays are about a size 10. When did a 10 become a plus size?? Isn’t this America? I thought we were all overweight?
I pick my jaw up off the floor where it fell and pay for my incredibly long pants. I then contemplate my adventure outside of the junior department. I see how women learn to hate their image and it all starts in the department store. I am never shopping in the WOMAN section again. I am going to hang on to being a junior as long as I can.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Cha-Cha-Cha Changes
I was having a conversation with my vodka cranberry and decided it was time that I start to make some changes in my life. Of course, my glass of yummy-ness made me promise not to switch to whiskey and I promised I wouldn’t. Besides, do I look like a middle-aged man to you? What kind of woman drinks whiskey? Probably the same kind of woman who wears tree camouflage and has Copenhagen stress marks in the back pockets of her Carhartts.
First things first, I needed to hit the gym more often or quit eating cookies on the half-hour marks. I already spend an hour a day at the gym so it must be the cookies that make my physique look more meatball-ish. Time to scratch the cookies. Damn.
Next were the clothes that I seem to just jam myself into on the weekends. I don’t know why, but I hate getting dolled up on days that start with ‘S’. It is true that sexy starts with S but so does slob and being a slob is so much easier than sexy. Besides, my boobs need a rest from being jammed up to my chin all week. The poor girls are so scared to come down Friday night that it takes them until Sunday to finally relax. Nevertheless, I need to start paying more attention to my clothing choices on the weekends. That’s really the only time the outside world sees me. Time to get a credit card.*
Next, my brain needed some more intelligent activity. My chick lit novels and rag magazines are doing me no favors in the brilliant department. I need to start watching the news and occasionally pick up a newspaper. I was so shocked when just last week I figured out that Osama Bin Laden died. Like where the hell was I when that went down?! I hope to God I was doing something important like feeding orphan children. Based on my normal routine, I was probably tanning or getting my nails done. Time to subscribe to a newspaper.
Finally, I need to make some new friends. My old friends are fabulous but they’re tired of my lazy ass not returning calls, failing to show up at events and overall being a crappy friend. However, new friends won’t have a clue as to how slothful I truly am so I’ll have a clean slate. I don’t really know where to find new friends and the last time I was at Trader Joe’s, no one seemed particularly interested in getting to know me. Add, ‘Become a more interesting person’ to my list.
As I re-read over this blog, I thoughtfully chew my double chocolate chip cookie and wonder if maybe everyone else is changing and I refuse to grow up. I couldn’t imagine how this could be the case. Maybe after I get my new credit card, I’ll pick up a few self-help books and check things out.
In the meantime, I should probably just stay who I am and start drinking double vodka cranberries instead of singles. That seems like a healthy enough change to me!
*I hope like hell that my dad isn’t reading this. I may be 29 years old, but he told me that I wasn’t allowed to have credit cards and I’ve stuck it out this far…maybe he’ll let me use his…hmm….
First things first, I needed to hit the gym more often or quit eating cookies on the half-hour marks. I already spend an hour a day at the gym so it must be the cookies that make my physique look more meatball-ish. Time to scratch the cookies. Damn.
Next were the clothes that I seem to just jam myself into on the weekends. I don’t know why, but I hate getting dolled up on days that start with ‘S’. It is true that sexy starts with S but so does slob and being a slob is so much easier than sexy. Besides, my boobs need a rest from being jammed up to my chin all week. The poor girls are so scared to come down Friday night that it takes them until Sunday to finally relax. Nevertheless, I need to start paying more attention to my clothing choices on the weekends. That’s really the only time the outside world sees me. Time to get a credit card.*
Next, my brain needed some more intelligent activity. My chick lit novels and rag magazines are doing me no favors in the brilliant department. I need to start watching the news and occasionally pick up a newspaper. I was so shocked when just last week I figured out that Osama Bin Laden died. Like where the hell was I when that went down?! I hope to God I was doing something important like feeding orphan children. Based on my normal routine, I was probably tanning or getting my nails done. Time to subscribe to a newspaper.
Finally, I need to make some new friends. My old friends are fabulous but they’re tired of my lazy ass not returning calls, failing to show up at events and overall being a crappy friend. However, new friends won’t have a clue as to how slothful I truly am so I’ll have a clean slate. I don’t really know where to find new friends and the last time I was at Trader Joe’s, no one seemed particularly interested in getting to know me. Add, ‘Become a more interesting person’ to my list.
As I re-read over this blog, I thoughtfully chew my double chocolate chip cookie and wonder if maybe everyone else is changing and I refuse to grow up. I couldn’t imagine how this could be the case. Maybe after I get my new credit card, I’ll pick up a few self-help books and check things out.
In the meantime, I should probably just stay who I am and start drinking double vodka cranberries instead of singles. That seems like a healthy enough change to me!
*I hope like hell that my dad isn’t reading this. I may be 29 years old, but he told me that I wasn’t allowed to have credit cards and I’ve stuck it out this far…maybe he’ll let me use his…hmm….
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Trader Joe's and PMS
PMS is a crazy place. Men could probably equate this to 90% of the cazy things they get involved in. Strange things happen during this hormonal hot spot in the month and I never seem to escape it. It’s like this super human force takes over my brain and suddenly I’m a hot mess and can’t figure out why I hate everyone and find them all so annoying. Then, as soon as I realize that I’ve been taken over, I cry profusely and beg forgiveness from everyone I know. This is probably the only unattractive aspect about me – and I mean only.
Needless to say, on Sunday, I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed starving for cornbread. It couldn’t be just any cornbread either. It had to be from Trader Joe's. So after much deliberation, pacing the kitchen floor and a bag of cookies later, I decide that it’s high time I jump into my best track suit and head into the city. Well... Olympia... but you get the idea. I’m in a TRACK SUIT for crying out loud – and it’s not even 1970.
During my 20-minute drive I mentally map where I need to go while I am in town. I knew I needed to go to Trader Joe's, the tanning salon, and Office Depot to have some scanning done. The only real ‘chore’ that I enjoy doing is anything that makes me more attractive. (For a brief listing of these services please see footnote.*) So I decided I would save the best for last – tanning! Yay!
I pull into the parking lot of Trader Joe's and as I am locking my vehicle, I notice that Mr. and Mrs. Granola and their two kids - Trail and Mix - are starting at me. I give myself the once over in the reflection of my car. Best black track jacket? Check. Sweats to match with a bedazzled leg and bottom? Check. Make-up caked on so no one realizes it was leftovers from last night? Check. Cross necklace? Check (um, hello Granola family…It’s Sunday! Represent some Jesus wouldja?). Platform Guess flip flops? Check.** Hoop earrings and bling ring? Check!+
I couldn’t understand why that odd little family looked at me so strangely until I crossed the threshold of Trader Joe's. Almost instantly everyone turned to look at me - I was the Snooki in the land of organic eating dirt worshippers. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks and my bronzer melt from my forehead. I needed to get out of this place and quick! Who knew what crazy ideas they wanted me to try. I quickly scanned the isles and as my nerves rose, so did my frustration. Where was this damn box of bread already?!
Finally a kind woman with wonderfully flowing armpit hair rustled up a gentleman who would go into the depths of the backroom farm to fish out my box of heaven. He was back behind the double doors for minutes too long. The stares kept coming and at one point, a little girl tugged on her amish mother’s skirt and whispered, “Why is she so orange?” I couldn’t hate on the little one until her beastly mother replied, “that’s what happens when you do drugs – you turn orange.” I would have loved to have stepped into that conversation and tell the little munchkin and her witch mother that what really happens when you do drugs is that you have the time of your life, flying high, dancing like it’s nobody’s business, and you wake up pool side to a plastic flamingo with your best girlfriend heaving chunks of Jack in the Box in a bush. But! I clearly was scary enough for these two little angels…they walked away quickly after my menacing stare.
Finally DJ Quick decided to come back out…empty handed. “I’m sorry miss. The truck won’t be in until this afternoon.”
Before I let the tears cascade down my little bronzed face and mess up my eyeliner, I said, “What does that mean exactly?”
He told me they were out of cornbread. Remember, this was my only reason for living on Sunday.
I quickly left the strange land of naturalists and was so saddened at the travesty our grocery stores have come to. Really, what is the purpose of even having a Trader Joes when there’s no cornbread or two buck chuck? I drug my track suited self to the tanning salon and quietly shed my tears as the heated lamps dried the saddness away.
*Facials, waxes, manicures, pedicures, massage, tanning, weight lifting, cardio, clothes shopping, shoe shopping, bikini shopping, car shopping, haircuts, colors, foils, extensions, buying push-up bras, high heel shopping, make-up…I think you get the general idea here.
**My track pants are too long so it was either platform flops or stilettos and it was church day.
+It was my lucky ring and I was definitely gonna hit some slots on the way home.
Needless to say, on Sunday, I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed starving for cornbread. It couldn’t be just any cornbread either. It had to be from Trader Joe's. So after much deliberation, pacing the kitchen floor and a bag of cookies later, I decide that it’s high time I jump into my best track suit and head into the city. Well... Olympia... but you get the idea. I’m in a TRACK SUIT for crying out loud – and it’s not even 1970.
During my 20-minute drive I mentally map where I need to go while I am in town. I knew I needed to go to Trader Joe's, the tanning salon, and Office Depot to have some scanning done. The only real ‘chore’ that I enjoy doing is anything that makes me more attractive. (For a brief listing of these services please see footnote.*) So I decided I would save the best for last – tanning! Yay!
I pull into the parking lot of Trader Joe's and as I am locking my vehicle, I notice that Mr. and Mrs. Granola and their two kids - Trail and Mix - are starting at me. I give myself the once over in the reflection of my car. Best black track jacket? Check. Sweats to match with a bedazzled leg and bottom? Check. Make-up caked on so no one realizes it was leftovers from last night? Check. Cross necklace? Check (um, hello Granola family…It’s Sunday! Represent some Jesus wouldja?). Platform Guess flip flops? Check.** Hoop earrings and bling ring? Check!+
I couldn’t understand why that odd little family looked at me so strangely until I crossed the threshold of Trader Joe's. Almost instantly everyone turned to look at me - I was the Snooki in the land of organic eating dirt worshippers. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks and my bronzer melt from my forehead. I needed to get out of this place and quick! Who knew what crazy ideas they wanted me to try. I quickly scanned the isles and as my nerves rose, so did my frustration. Where was this damn box of bread already?!
Finally a kind woman with wonderfully flowing armpit hair rustled up a gentleman who would go into the depths of the backroom farm to fish out my box of heaven. He was back behind the double doors for minutes too long. The stares kept coming and at one point, a little girl tugged on her amish mother’s skirt and whispered, “Why is she so orange?” I couldn’t hate on the little one until her beastly mother replied, “that’s what happens when you do drugs – you turn orange.” I would have loved to have stepped into that conversation and tell the little munchkin and her witch mother that what really happens when you do drugs is that you have the time of your life, flying high, dancing like it’s nobody’s business, and you wake up pool side to a plastic flamingo with your best girlfriend heaving chunks of Jack in the Box in a bush. But! I clearly was scary enough for these two little angels…they walked away quickly after my menacing stare.
Finally DJ Quick decided to come back out…empty handed. “I’m sorry miss. The truck won’t be in until this afternoon.”
Before I let the tears cascade down my little bronzed face and mess up my eyeliner, I said, “What does that mean exactly?”
He told me they were out of cornbread. Remember, this was my only reason for living on Sunday.
I quickly left the strange land of naturalists and was so saddened at the travesty our grocery stores have come to. Really, what is the purpose of even having a Trader Joes when there’s no cornbread or two buck chuck? I drug my track suited self to the tanning salon and quietly shed my tears as the heated lamps dried the saddness away.
*Facials, waxes, manicures, pedicures, massage, tanning, weight lifting, cardio, clothes shopping, shoe shopping, bikini shopping, car shopping, haircuts, colors, foils, extensions, buying push-up bras, high heel shopping, make-up…I think you get the general idea here.
**My track pants are too long so it was either platform flops or stilettos and it was church day.
+It was my lucky ring and I was definitely gonna hit some slots on the way home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
