Thursday, July 21
I was speechless
And folks who know me know how rare that is.
I don't shop. I don't shop at the mall, especially. I don't shop at the mall at McRaes, extra-especially, and here's a story illustrating one reason why.
My grandmother gives me gift cards, which I really like. (Much better suited to me than the Gail Pittman Hollylujah (!) dinnerware that an aunt started giving me, piece by evil piece, several years ago. Hey, Aunt S, have you ever even met me?) But Grandmother started giving me McRaes' cards. Now, I had never been to McRaes, but it is in the mall, so I knew the score--over-priced and girlie. Well, it's a gift, and perhaps I could use some girlie. So, I and a friend, J., went head on off to McRaes. I am short and uh, zaftig, and high-waisted to boot. Not an easy fit. After looking around for quite a while at jeans that would come to my neck and not finding any particularly petite items, I decide that perhaps the Juniors sections might have something, though I am several years past "Junior." We can't find that section (I am mall-illiterate), so we decide to ask an "associate" for help. My friend does the asking.
"Hi. Can you tell us where the junior section is?" The Ass. takes her pencil and waves it in a line from J.'s head to her feet while saying, in a disbelieving tone, "Is this for you? Or for you?", pointing the pencil at me. J. says, "I may be fat, but I'm not stupid," and we walk off. Well, this just chaps my ass. I get more and more pissed, at one point uttering the "F" word just as we pass a gentleman who turns out to be J.'s mother's pastor. J. is not having a good mall experience. Finally, I have decided to do something about this unexcusable rudeness. I have built up a head of steam, I'll tell ya.
A good head of steam is difficult to maintain while waiting for 15 minutes in a line of people checking out at McRaes, but I'm doing it. Giving myself little pep-talks. Saying things to myself like "How would you like it if I directed you to the sombreros just because you look Hispanic, Puta?" and "The Nerve!". Finally, I'm there. I say to the Ass., "I didn't like what you said to my friend." (That's telling her!)
And she reaches out, and pats my arm, and says, "That's ok."
I don't shop. I don't shop at the mall, especially. I don't shop at the mall at McRaes, extra-especially, and here's a story illustrating one reason why.
My grandmother gives me gift cards, which I really like. (Much better suited to me than the Gail Pittman Hollylujah (!) dinnerware that an aunt started giving me, piece by evil piece, several years ago. Hey, Aunt S, have you ever even met me?) But Grandmother started giving me McRaes' cards. Now, I had never been to McRaes, but it is in the mall, so I knew the score--over-priced and girlie. Well, it's a gift, and perhaps I could use some girlie. So, I and a friend, J., went head on off to McRaes. I am short and uh, zaftig, and high-waisted to boot. Not an easy fit. After looking around for quite a while at jeans that would come to my neck and not finding any particularly petite items, I decide that perhaps the Juniors sections might have something, though I am several years past "Junior." We can't find that section (I am mall-illiterate), so we decide to ask an "associate" for help. My friend does the asking.
"Hi. Can you tell us where the junior section is?" The Ass. takes her pencil and waves it in a line from J.'s head to her feet while saying, in a disbelieving tone, "Is this for you? Or for you?", pointing the pencil at me. J. says, "I may be fat, but I'm not stupid," and we walk off. Well, this just chaps my ass. I get more and more pissed, at one point uttering the "F" word just as we pass a gentleman who turns out to be J.'s mother's pastor. J. is not having a good mall experience. Finally, I have decided to do something about this unexcusable rudeness. I have built up a head of steam, I'll tell ya.
A good head of steam is difficult to maintain while waiting for 15 minutes in a line of people checking out at McRaes, but I'm doing it. Giving myself little pep-talks. Saying things to myself like "How would you like it if I directed you to the sombreros just because you look Hispanic, Puta?" and "The Nerve!". Finally, I'm there. I say to the Ass., "I didn't like what you said to my friend." (That's telling her!)
And she reaches out, and pats my arm, and says, "That's ok."
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