Took 5 teenage girls (because I am that cool), one miserable 11-year-old boy and one bald rather attractive husband (because I am that stupid) shopping because I am looking for the Mom-of-the-Year medal and didn’t want to sit through the Bieber movie.
Actually, after days of listening to:
So we went. And our testosterone laden shoppers hightailed it to the nirvana of Dick’s Sporting Goods where Boy exclaimed in a star-struck whisper, “I wish I could live here.”
The girls floated through the new Teen Mecca and single-handedly reversed the recession, blowing through their entire soccer reffing kitty – except for Kid2 as she is desperately saving for a car and hates to shop.
Just like her mother. Something must be genetically wrong with us.
But I have a job. And bosslady wants to see me once a week.
Which is fine, except my clothes are, um, dated, and my ass, is um, larger. And while I show well once in a while, usually seated at a restaurant after a few bottles of vino with the lights low. Daytime appearances in full light is quite different. And frightening.
So I shopped.
But can you believe this?
NOTHING in Forever 21 store fit me. Not that I tried it on. Not that I even got past the door as the bouncy bouncers at the storefront were ID-ing customers. They up&downed me like I was at the 8th grade homecoming dance in a dress my mom made. If only they had Forever 21 and not Caldor, the ’70s would have gone much easier for me.
The Forever 21 sugars up & downed me then corralled all pocketbook hugging mammas directly to the cash registers to foot the bill. I know later in life they’ll be the same wenches at Lord & Taylor saying, “No, no honey. Uh-uh. You can’t afford to shop here. Keep on walking.”
So I went searching for the fat & forty stores, but they don’t call them that so you have to really look.