free hit counter Snacks, please!: Shopping with the girls

Monday, June 4, 2007

Shopping with the girls

I need a dress for my nephew's bar mitzvah in two weeks. I tried buying one online -- but I think its polka dots align in a bad way across my hips -- and I've decided to return it. No more online shopping! I have to pay $16 for postage on this one, basically for the privilege of trying it on at home, and it annoys me.

So, I decided to take the babies to Nordstrom with me. If you have to venture to the mall with infants in two, I suggest going to Nordstrom. The ladies are very nice and they have a very comfortable women's lounge where you can breastfeed (not that Margaret and Josephine have anything to do with that!) Anyway, I stowed the double snap 'n go in the minivan, stopped for gas ($3.11 a gallon!!), and strategically parked where we'll encounter no stairs.

First salesman: "Good morning! My, you have your hands full!"

Second saleswoman: "Good morning! My you have your hands full!"

Third saleswoman: "Hi there! Oh boy, you have your hands full!"

Is this a line from training? Yes, yes, I do. Smile, smile. I am on a mission, no time for small talk. We motor down to dresses and I start flipping through the racks. There is a lovely gold sleeveless dress with beading -- size 14. Hm. No doubt it will be much too big! But it's pretty, so I throw in. A lavender halter dress. Too daring for the temple? Too bad! I throw it in. At least three black dresses. A chocolate brown stretchy Nina Ricco. And another beaded dress that makes me think of Anastasia, the missing daughter of the Czar.

The helpful saleswoman gives me the handicapped stall. The girls wake up -- oh, interesting! They beam. It's a fashion show! First, the size 14 gold dress. It fits suspiciously well. Is it really a size 14? Hm.... I am not buying it. Forget it. Margaret starts to scream. I know Margaret! I don't like it either! Let's see... Little black dress, number one. It's cute. It's a size 10. I can't zip it. Do I have bad posture? Stand up straighter. No, that's not it. Josephine starts to scream. Pacifier here, pacifier there. Black dress number two. Ack. What's it doing to my fountains of milk? Something not good. Babies begin fretting. This is not much fun, is it? Saleswoman returns and asks, "Can I take anything from you? Maybe one of those babies?" Hahaha. I throw out the first black dress and say, "I like this one. Do you have it in a bigger size?" She returns a minute later with a size 14. Oh, she is a funny one, isn't she? Let's try one of these halter dresses instead. I am gratified to see that the size 10 fits very well. I coo to Margaret and Josephine. They are not fooled. They insist on bottles of milk and we take a much-needed break.

By the time they're done, I see the halter top isn't working. It's dropped a rather inappropriate inch or two and I fear the wrath of Abraham (and my sister). But the Nina Ricco looks pretty good, maybe a little tight. The Anastasia dress is weird. Margaret HATES it. And I say, come on, Margaret, it's not that bad!! Where the hell is our lady? I need a bigger size on this Nina Ricco. We wheel out. There is one left. It is a size 14. Is this some kind of message? I am no listening! La-la-la-la! We wheel back to the dressing room. I grab a spotty B&W Maggy London on the way. Margaret and Josephine have had it! Scream, scream, scream. Just one more, I plead. We return to the dressing room. It's locked. I throw myself on the floor, shimmy under. (I'm not too big for that, am I, huh?) I let the girls in too, although I'm a little sick of their telling me how bad everything looks, and try it on. It's a size 12. It fits perfectly. We're done.

Speaking of shimmying, that reminds me of my freshman year in college. My roommate and I, and a visiting friend of hers from home, were eating French fries at Au Pied on Wisconsin Avenue very late at night, when we got the bright idea to visit Arlington Cemetery and see if the eternal flame still burned. The friend had a car so we sped across the Key Bridge, parked right by the gate, and... slipped right under it.

Ha. If only it was that easy. My roommate was a runway model. Yes, she slipped right under it. Her friend, who was training at clown school in Florida, probably could have leaped over it, but he slipped right under it too. But me... oh dear. I could blame it on that night's fries, but it probably was the 17 years of whole milk, fried eggplant and spaghetti in my tummy. I got stuck! Really stuck. Starting to sweat stuck. I began to imagine a whole night there, under the gate, waiting to be discovered by a Marine in the morning. Is this a federal crime? Good grief!! I am going to cry! But I did get out. Both of my companions had to pull (too hard!) and I got a gravel burn on my back.


Anonymous Alain said...

Your problem is, you're not spending enough money. Haven't you read that women's dress sizes measure cost, not actual size: the more expensive, the smaller the "size"?

I don't suppose you have a photo of yourself breaking into the dressing room? Next time, teach the twins to use a cell phone camera.

June 5, 2007 at 7:29 PM  

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