Monday night is trainee night at the mall. I found this out when I ventured there to look for shoes. Let's just get the questions out of the way now, shall we?
Yes, I had my dress fitting before I purchased my own wedding shoes.
No, I didn't have them yet.
Yes, I realize that I should have them like, weeks ago.
The public flogging is set for Wednesday at noon, allright?? I know I am a hopelessly unprepared bride who needs to be shot, or smacked. Or possibly both.
The first stop was to look for shoes for OC. We stopped in the frilly kids' store, and they only had ivory shoes. Which actually might work, but the salesgirl was 15 and wasn't much help. She was perky and cute, though. I wanted to smack her.
I found a pair of shoes for me, but I was at the mall to pick up my fancy lingerie from Victoria's Secret. Which reminds me of something funny my sister said once, "Who the hell is Victoria, and what is the damn secret?"
So anyway, I was at Vickie's, waiting in line on a Monday night. That right there had me perplexed. Why were are all these other people shopping on Monday night? Are they in the midst of an underwear emergency that couldn't wait until next weekend? Are they just not fond of crowds and so are taking care of their bra and panty needs on what should be a slow night? Or are they as unprepared as me? If so, then they are my peeps! Anyway, they were my peeps who were totally in my way. I didn't like them that much. My peeps suck.
I was waiting in line with two people ahead of me. The cashiers seemed to be taking a long time. I started watching them. Oh my gosh, I thought to myself. They don't know what the hell they're doing! And one of them was a guy. A guy, working in Vickie's Secret? What the holy hell on a stick is that all about?!?
Cut to 30 minutes later, when I finally got to the front of the line. I get the guy salesclerk, of course. He starts ringing me up and fumbling around with my unmentionables. He keeps fumbling, keeps fumbling, and I want to reach out and slap him, tell him to be careful. He's not doing a good job at all, sloppily pulling them off the hanger, and doing it incorrectly so they stick. Then I hand him my gift card, which seems to throw him for a loop. You could see him pressing many buttons on the computer screen, but apparently none were the right buttons. He starts fumbling with words at this point, "Um, allright, I don't know how to run a gift card so I'll have to get someone. Should be just a second." He stands there in place, bobbing his head and looking around for the nearest salesgirl to rescue him. There are about three or four salesgirls, all in other parts of the store. He keeps mumbling, "Ahh, should be just a second......oh, she's right over there........ahhh........just a second" and as the salesgirl goes into the other room, "Awwww........man!"
More mumbling and many minutes of waiting go by as I am about ready to go get the girl myself when she finally comes over. He tells her, "I don't know how to run the gift card." She says, "Push the button that says 'gift card' and run it through like a credit card." This is tough stuff, people, don't laugh. It's hard to read words, push buttons and swipe plastic cards. It's hard to fold underwear and wrap it in tissue, and easier to just kind of pile it up in the tissue and hand it to the customer. I understand all of this, which is why I was patient and kind, and not at all screaming in my head, "Die stupid Guy-Working-at-Victoria's-Secret, DIE! And learn how to fold women's underwear if you're going to freaking work here, motherfucker! You're not a novelty!" No, not at all. You can't prove it.
What has the world come to when men are working at Victoria's Secret? I didn't like it, and even if he had known how to fold my things or run a gift card through, it's a bunch of crap. Men don't belong on that side of the counter. It's just wrong. That's OUR store, meaning all of womankind, and I don't want men folding my as-yet-to-be-worn underthings, especially fumbling with them, nor do I want them measuring me or helping me with anything underthing related. I don't mean it's because I'm embarrassed, not at all. Or that all mean are fumbling incompetents. No, no, no. What I mean to convey is that I think this is just a woman's experience to buy private sexy things, and men don't have any role in the acquisition portion of the sexy underthings buy-a-thon. They belong in the store, as shoppers, but not as salesmen. Please, can't this be a rule?
Okay, so the shoes. They're so pretty! They're a metallic gold, but soft and sparkly, not garish at all. And they're oh, so comfy. I love them! And I can wear them after the wedding, so that's a bonus. I spent more than I meant to, though, that's the only thing. But it was either spend $60 on shoes I likely won't wear again, or lots and lots of money on shoes I can wear again and again. See the logic? It totally works.
And the clerk who found the shoes? Was a guy. Guys can sell shoes, baby, oh yes indeedy!
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