Subject: Manse Diaries: Mall Pall
Date: 01 Aug 1998 00:00:00 GMT
From: firstname.lastname@example.org (MegaLiz)
Organization: MotPU: Where Binary Moodswings are ALWAYS on the Menu
Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free, alt.slack, alt.ask.phred
Baby Bobo and I had a rare opportunity today. The rest of the
family was happily occupied with swimming, but we were going to
shed our poor folk shackles and perform a couple of surgical
strikes, including one on the mall. I hate the mall, really, but
I believe now that it's a distaste that's directly proportional
to the amount of spare cash I'm able to leave there. We've
finally hit budgetary bone in the stay-at-home project and have
the chance to truly test our commitment. If I were thoroughly
committed, I would have stayed home, but, well, I had this
I struggled Bo into the backpack for our first stop, a birthday
present from Crap Country. I headed straight for the messy, one
afternoon project section and immediately found a five-dollar
gift for Sparky's pal. At the register, I took an instinctive
liking to the cashier. She stood out from the usual teenage rebel
sheep, having no visible piercings, but rather was wearing lots
of interesting rings and displaying a genuine and relaxed sort of
friendliness. I nearly blurted, "Would you be my babysitter?"
before I remembered that I couldn't afford a babysitter right
now. She's probably too old for it, but I was mildly alarmed to
realize that I couldn't tell if she was sixteen or twenty. I
decided not to ask.
Strapped back into the squeal mobile, we headed for the mall, and
we only got a tiny bit lost. I couldn't remember the last time I
drove to the mall alone with a baby, but the coupon psychology
was just that strong. FIFTEEN dollars! Surely I could find a
small something or two that would be nearly FREE.
I once again failed to be pleased with my radio station, and I
began to wonder if I'm somehow just too old for it. None of the
"new music" sounds particularly new or even musical. I also
dislike the way their Flashback Cafe features songs that hark
back not-so-many years ago, to a time when I was a cashier with
lots of interesting rings on my fingers. Bobo seemed to like the
station, but she has terrible taste in music. One-year-olds
generally do, I've found.
I congratulated myself on finding the mall and having sufficient
endurance to eschew the stroller again. I focussed only on the
Coupon Store; everything else that taunted me from the windows
was as irrelevant as the obstacle planters.
The store had very few items that my coupon would cover,
naturally, and it boasted very few items that would cover me
adequately. The other coupon-bearers and I giggled at the idea of
arm-wrestling over the few remaining sixteen-dollar chemises. I
wasn't the only one diverted by The Deal, but I was the only one
foolhardy enough to pursue it with twenty-odd pounds of teething
on my back.
I was amazed to find a rack of what can only be described as
painter's shorts. The Rev had mentioned that he thought I should get
something exactly like that. I scoffed at the time, but there
they were, being inarguably real and undeniably short. I had to
wonder where he'd seen them, since it wasn't random inspiration
after all. Wherever they'd been, they'd made an impression. I
harrumphed and decided to try them on.
It was most powerful coupon coquette juju working me now. I tried
the stupid shorts on while I wore the baby on my back. We
couldn't turn around in the dressing closet, so I struggled into
the shorts and backed out of the door, while the baby happily
pulled my hair into a new disorganized mop shape. We stared at
the shorts in the mirror, had a brief lesson in saying MAH-MAH,
and I had nearly decided to buy the shorts when I got a glimpse
of the rear view. I'm too old for them. No question. No sale. A
flimsy blouse thing would go home with us instead.
After plunking down a mere five dollars and twenty-four cents for
a blouse that is probably worth five dollars, we bounced toward
the exit. Nobody cooed at the baby the way they do when she's in
a stroller, but aside from the hair pulling, it was infinitely
more interesting to have her close enough to blow raspberries at
my ears. I cooed at her, and chided myself about the shorts until
I noticed that we were following a woman who was showing off her
rampantly rumpled thighs. Yessir, I had just averted coupon
We edged out of the parking lot, which is arranged like a
vehicular pitcher plant. I had once again accidentally tuned into
and synchronized with the metropolitan flock movements. When we
were parking, dozens of cars circled, when we left, dozens
suddenly tried to escape at the same time. A Cadillac edged in
front of us, and since the driver was part of the second most
dangerous driver demographic--old guys in hats and wrap-around
sunglasses--I paused for as long as necessary to let him get
ahead of me. I suppose this took one beat of time too many,
because the sporty stud behind me began to gesture as if I'd just
performed a horribly dangerous maneuver. I looked back at the
Cadillac in time to see the wifely passenger punch the driver's
arm, and he waved a belated thanks as he drifted dangerously
close to the next lane.
I wondered if I'd ever get too old to go to the mall. It could
get much worse, though. I could get too old to get back OUT.
Emancipate a comma! Evict mental ergonomics!