And Now, Some Levity

As some of you may (or may not know), every Wednesday I go to my parents house and take my mom out to do her weekly shopping and whatever else needs to be done.  A few weeks ago she wanted to return a top she bought at Macy's because she didn't try it on first and it didn't fit.  So we did that and then headed over to the shoe department.  Alas, like most woman, my mom and I are shoe fanatics and Macy's had some shoes on a 75% off clearance rack.  Mom found a pair she liked and so did I.  She headed up to the counter to pay and I said, "did you try them on?"  She said no.  So I became the mom and said, "try them on because if I come over next week and you say you need to return your shoes because they don't fit, I'm going to be really pissed!"  So like the dutiful faux daughter she is, she tried them on.  And she bought them.

Sure enough, when I got there this week she says, very sheepishly I might add, "I have to take the shoes back to Macy's."  I'm perplexed, she tried them on.  I saw her do it.  But they don't fit.  They fit when she tried them on sitting down, but she didn't walk around and her toe was right at the tip and thus, too small.  Oy.  And then she tosses in, "by the way, the new Clinique gift is in at Dillard's so I want to get that too."  Terrific.  Now I'm not just going to Macy's, I'm going to the mall, something I hate to do.

The shoe return goes by easily and uneventfully.  Then we head to the other side of the mall to Dillard's.  The Clinique counter is jumpin!  Jumpin with a bunch of old ladies just like my mom who are chomping at the bit to get their free gift.  The free gift that, by the way, my mom complained about on the way there. "blah blah blah, it's always a make up bag!   Why can't they give us something other than a make up bag??"  To which I say, "um mom, they sell make up."  Anyway, the line is comprised of a bunch of old bitties who want their freebie.  So we wait.  And I take a spritz of Happy (which I love), and wait.  And wait.  While we wait, mom decides to get out her Dillard's card so she's prepared.  What's this?  She can't find it.  In her large menagerie of credit cards, of which she has a separate wallet for, she cannot find Dillard's.  She's got everything else under the sun, but Dillard's isn't there.  It's not really any big deal, they can look it up, but it's the principle of the thing.  She used the card to buy something online several weeks ago and the card is most likely sitting on her desk by the computer.  She decides she'll just use her Visa.  OK.  Whatever.

We wait.

Finally it's our turn and mom hands the salesgirl the bottle of the make up she wants.  Because you do realize of course that you have to spend $25 to get the free gift (worth about $10 no matter how much they seem to want you to think it's worth).  She gets mom her make up and now the fun starts to happen.  I swipe mom's Visa for her, because mom quite often refuses to put on her glasses and therefore cannot see well enough to work the little machine where you swipe your credit cards.  All the while I'm playing mom and she's playing daughter as I bitch at her for not putting on her glasses and say, "just give it me!" and I do it myself.  The salesgirl is amused by the scene in front of her.  The Visa doesn't go through.   Why?  Because it's expired.  So then we tell the salesgirl that she does not have her Dillard's card with her.  Not a problem, she tells us.  She can just look it up and tells mom that there will be a series of questions on the little screen on the credit card machine.  Oy.  She still didn't put on her glasses.  So she struggles to see the questions until, of course, I get annoyed enough to say, "just let me do it!"  Of course I realize this is her ploy all along.  I just keep falling for it!  And salesgirl continues to chuckle.

Something is still amiss.  The machine keeps asking the same questions over and over, going back to the beginning.  Salesgirl doesn't know what is happening so she decides to call direct.  Luckily we were last in line so we aren't holding anyone up because this is taking awhile.  Salesgirl gets an automated call and tries to input the information mom has given her.  But it is doing the same thing as the machine was, and going back to the beginning instead of giving her the card number.  What the fuck is going on?  No one knows.

Salesgirl comes up with a new idea.  She will go about the process of opening a new account for my mom and when the system realizes she already has one, it will give them the account number.  OK, have at it.  So as mom is giving salesgirl more information, another one pulls me aside and says, "Some dude (actually she knew his name, I don't remember it because I don't know jackshit about the Browns) from the Cleveland Browns was in this week and he bought $4,000 worth of merchandise and his transaction didn't take this long!"  We laughed, although I think I cried a little on the inside.

They are finally done and viola!  A new account is opened in my mom's name.  This is not what the salesgirl told us would happen.  At this point though, it doesn't matter.  I want to get the hell out of there, mom wants her fucking free stuff and the salespeople probably hate our guts.  The transaction is mercifully over and we leave.  As we are walking, and mind you, we aren't even out of the Clinique area yet, mom turns to me and says, "Oh... the Dillard's card is in your father's name."

Deep breath.  I swear I cannot make this shit up!

Embracing the Third D

It's not my favorite thing to do.  In fact it's one of my least favorite things to do.  Going to the mall.  I hate mall shopping.  I hate being attacked by perfume snipers.  I hate the crowds.  I hate rude people, er, people in general.  I hate the whole experience and do my best to never ever go to malls.  But, it's Mother's Day weekend and being without funds to buy my mom a suitable gift, I gave her the gift of my time and told her we could do whatever she wanted.  Much to my dismay, she chose going to the mall.  I had small glimmers of hope that she would opt to go to a movie (Kill the Irishmen is still in theaters after all and I have gift cards) or maybe to Gallucci's in Cleveland, the greatest Italian store in all the land.  Nope.  She wanted to go to the mall.

Resigned to my fate, off to the mall we went.  Previously, I had asked mom to watch her sale circulars for when a bra fitter would be at one of the department stores.  They aren't always there and usually if one is going to be around, they will advertise it.  I've been wanting to get accurately sized because I noticed my bras are anything but accurate.  I have several bras of varying sizes and they range from so tight I'm spilling out, to far too big and you can fit another boob in there with me.  And wouldn't you know, when we walked into JC Penney there was a sign that said a bra fitter was in the store today.  Off we went to get fitted.  As soon as we got into the dressing room, a promo came over the loud speaker "Get fitted for bras with Mom this Mother's Day!"  Nice, our Mother's Day activity has now been announced to all the shoppers in JC Penney.

It started out nice enough.  Our fitter was a sweet young gal who genuinely wanted to help.  But once in the dressing room, to say she was overwhelmed by her task would probably be an understatement.   Those who know me know my tits pretty much have their own address.  Mom's are even bigger.  I think they may even have their own gravitational pull.  And as I suspected, the size I had been buying was wrong.  But I didn't realize how wrong I really was.  I've suddenly been thrust from a large but manageable DD to a huge and daunting DDD.  The fitter, noticing my horror at this information quickly tried to cover her tracks by saying sizing is not an exact science and that she's not trying to make anyone feel bad about themselves.  I kind of felt like shit then, like I made her think it was her fault that my tits are so huge.  I told her not to worry and that if anyone is to blame for my ginormous chest, it's mom, to which mom just shrugged. Seriously what could she do?  She didn't have a tit to stand on, it is her fault.  Her and her damn genes.

Our fitter went out to the store floor to find us two new bras in our new more accurate sizes.  I told her to make sure she doesn't give my mom or myself torpedo tits.  Seriously there is nothing worse than torpedo tits.  What she came back with, to my skewed vision of what I now would be wearing, looked like this:

And when I put it on, it felt like that too.  A big giant utilitarian monstrosity.  No pretty demi bra with lace and possibly zebra stripes.  Nope, this is stark white, with four hooks, reinforced straps, and covers me from cleavage to belly button practically.  It's horrible.  I can't decide if I want to cry or scream or just curse my tits into submission.  And then I remembered something that made me feel a little better.  The boys sure do dig 'em.  So there ya go.  A triple D is for me, but I'll find something better than the bra that ate JC Penney thank you very much.