Before I start my snarky tirade, I would like to offer my condolences to the people of VTU. If you can't be safe on a college campus, with your ideas and your food-service-prepared cookies, then where can you be safe? Very sad. And definitely more thought-provoking than what I have written below.
I failed to dress for the very important occasion of selecting upholstery today, and boy did the standoffish saleslady disapprove! She was polite but it was rather clear that she did not wish to help me. I observed that I was not only the only woman in the store born after the Eisenhower administration, but also the only one not wearing makeup and some matchy bullshit outfit from Chico's. Today's enormous fashion crime is mixing patterns. I have animals on my shirt and gingerbread men on my socks. I atone for this sin, but I think that the bubble-haired lipstickioed salesvixen had my number in spite of this.
While I dress like a grad student about to clean a toilet during the week, the fact of the matter is, I am a customer who can afford any high-end textile this lady can throw my way, and honestly, being prejudged in boutiques is something I am most certainly no stranger to. In F-town, the fancy, aimless wives of the Raisin Capitol of the World bide their time between child rearing and dropping dead by opening uber-feminine high-end gift shops. As the stepgranddaughter of the Subcunt, whose disposable cash has funded such ventures for decades, I certainly got my fair share of sidelong glares and plastic surgery referrals when tagging along with either her or my ragamuffin-esque mother to comparison shop for sterling silver mantelpiece tchochkes. Such businesses are lampooned like fuck in my novel (the one I made up is called PRECIOUS DECADENCE and is an official Limoges dealer) But as much as I'd love to buy everything I need at Target, the time comes in the still-parentally-funded-at-31-year-old woman's life when she has to put on her shittiest clothes and do battle with the dragon of uppity taste.
I ended up walking out of this boutique, figuring that my attempts at selecting upholstery without a swatch of what I already have (meaning my electric geriatric post-op gimpy chair) were vain at best. I kicked it back to my favorite furniture store, the La-Z-Boy Factory Outlet, where my personal saleslady thinks I'm a scream. I explored the personal enjoyment potential of the massage chair* for a bit while she hunted down the swatches I needed to make an informed decision regarding the all-important decor of our home. La-Z-Boy's boxy, comfort-focused design is all I need to make my nest as freakin' nesty as I want. Bob and I like to get nesty when we're at home.
*More jolting than vibrator-y, in my opinion.
Posted by Zerd at April 16, 2007 04:16 PM