die. Macy's. die.
Boy did I NOT have the time of my life yesterday while shopping at Macy's. First: I hate shopping; I'm a search-and-destroy kind of person and I resent having to poke around for the one thing I need among various other items that are supposed to capture my fancy and money. Also, why the hell do sizes vary from store to store? That is pure evil. So yeah, my personal hell is either trying on a mountain of jeans or searching for something that's not a piece of crap at IKEA. Two: I hate shopping in mid-town. Why? Tourists, children, and slow-walkers. Three: I hate giant department stores; I hate their corporate muzak, the inattentive employees, and everyone on the escalator (move!). This was in fact my first time to Macy's, and it just so happened to be the day of the One Day Sale preview. Oh boy...
Despite my extensive laundry-list of shopping ills, I went into Macy's with a fairly open heart and mind. Both of which were soon after soured by the miracle mile of designer handbags, made undoubtedly by nimble-fingered Malaysian children. I could just take a shit in a Louis Vuitton bag, I mean it. After browsing through two or three floors of dresses--steering clear of the frenzied preview sale shoppers and the hurricane of fabric and hangers left in their wake--I found three dresses for the wedding. All of which were black (hey, it could double as funeral attire). Luckily my favorite was not the most expensive, and after calling Celeste for some quick fashion advice (she is my vintage polyester-winged angel), I decided to buy it. Now for the shoes...
HolymotherofJimmieCarter, the shoe department was a disaster area. THIS was where everyone was trying to snap up and reserve the sales items of their dreams. Again, I tried to avoid the rabid shoppers. I also daintily stepped over their sugar-hyped children rolling around on the floor. (Seriously people: shop at Macy's before you consider having children. No matter how hard you try, you're kids are going to be assholes in public from time to time.) Finally I found two pairs of shoes worthy of a formal summer wedding, both of which were Anne Klein. After about 10 minutes of feeling stupid and trying to get *someone* to retrieve my size, I finally got Ray* (*name changed to protect the stupid).
Ray was slow and forgetful--I had to repeat my shoe size three times for his benefit. When I finally got the shoes I quickly decided on the more modest of the two pairs (maybe shiny and red doesn't scream formal summer wedding). As I was putting my sneakers back on, Ray came back and asked if they worked out. Yes, I replied. THEN he asked this mind-blowing question: "Do they make you feel sexy?" Uuuh, what??? Granted, he didn't lick my toes, but this was really crossing a line. I laughed it off and made my way to the register. In addition to the shoes, he also rang up my dress, to which he commented that I would be "hot" in it and that I would "work it out." Now if Ray was gay I would go for that. I love me a queen and there is nothing like a fashionable gay telling you you're going to be fierce in X attire to really boost your ego. But Ray was not gay, nor complimentary, and certainly NOT welcomed to make such familiar and flirtatious advances on me--again. What's funny is that he wrote his name at the bottom of my receipt and said that I could go to Macy's online and write about the service I had received today--like he was good. Oh, believe me, I'll let someone know...
After buying a heavy-ass crystal bowl (without a hitch, thankfully) as a wedding present, I lugged my purchases home. What a happy, sweaty consumer. When I got home--Brooklyn, mind you--I opened the shoebox to find that my delightful Anne Klein's were not inside. Instead was a pair of gaudy, slutty, gold/white/clear acrylic Guess shoes just FIT for a stripper (and I should know). There is no wedding in the world where those shoes would have been appropriate, not even Vegas. I think I screamed "NOOOOOOO!" for about two minutes solid.
:::Montage of pointless phone calls to Macy's. Que train ride back to mid-town. Add bewildered boyfriend to mix.:::
Back at Macy's, I received a blank look when I explained the situation to a sales associate. He told me to sit down and that he would bring me my size. After about 10 pointless minutes, a manager noticed me and asked if I was being helped. Actually, no, and we have a BIG problem. She asserted that yes indeed, we did. Two more managers were soon after involved, all of whom expressed disgust and outrage at Ray's sexualized comments. "Oh, now I need a shower!" exclaimed the woman when I repeated Ray's come-ons. They were also baffled as to how he charged me for the shoes I wanted, then put *these nasty things* in my bag. After a lot of button pushing and smoothing of my ruffled feathers, I had the shoes I initially purchased AND a 25% discount on them. I did not have my evening back, however, not by a long shot. But something tells me Ray might be hearing about all of this next time he works...
Despite my extensive laundry-list of shopping ills, I went into Macy's with a fairly open heart and mind. Both of which were soon after soured by the miracle mile of designer handbags, made undoubtedly by nimble-fingered Malaysian children. I could just take a shit in a Louis Vuitton bag, I mean it. After browsing through two or three floors of dresses--steering clear of the frenzied preview sale shoppers and the hurricane of fabric and hangers left in their wake--I found three dresses for the wedding. All of which were black (hey, it could double as funeral attire). Luckily my favorite was not the most expensive, and after calling Celeste for some quick fashion advice (she is my vintage polyester-winged angel), I decided to buy it. Now for the shoes...
HolymotherofJimmieCarter, the shoe department was a disaster area. THIS was where everyone was trying to snap up and reserve the sales items of their dreams. Again, I tried to avoid the rabid shoppers. I also daintily stepped over their sugar-hyped children rolling around on the floor. (Seriously people: shop at Macy's before you consider having children. No matter how hard you try, you're kids are going to be assholes in public from time to time.) Finally I found two pairs of shoes worthy of a formal summer wedding, both of which were Anne Klein. After about 10 minutes of feeling stupid and trying to get *someone* to retrieve my size, I finally got Ray* (*name changed to protect the stupid).
Ray was slow and forgetful--I had to repeat my shoe size three times for his benefit. When I finally got the shoes I quickly decided on the more modest of the two pairs (maybe shiny and red doesn't scream formal summer wedding). As I was putting my sneakers back on, Ray came back and asked if they worked out. Yes, I replied. THEN he asked this mind-blowing question: "Do they make you feel sexy?" Uuuh, what??? Granted, he didn't lick my toes, but this was really crossing a line. I laughed it off and made my way to the register. In addition to the shoes, he also rang up my dress, to which he commented that I would be "hot" in it and that I would "work it out." Now if Ray was gay I would go for that. I love me a queen and there is nothing like a fashionable gay telling you you're going to be fierce in X attire to really boost your ego. But Ray was not gay, nor complimentary, and certainly NOT welcomed to make such familiar and flirtatious advances on me--again. What's funny is that he wrote his name at the bottom of my receipt and said that I could go to Macy's online and write about the service I had received today--like he was good. Oh, believe me, I'll let someone know...
After buying a heavy-ass crystal bowl (without a hitch, thankfully) as a wedding present, I lugged my purchases home. What a happy, sweaty consumer. When I got home--Brooklyn, mind you--I opened the shoebox to find that my delightful Anne Klein's were not inside. Instead was a pair of gaudy, slutty, gold/white/clear acrylic Guess shoes just FIT for a stripper (and I should know). There is no wedding in the world where those shoes would have been appropriate, not even Vegas. I think I screamed "NOOOOOOO!" for about two minutes solid.
:::Montage of pointless phone calls to Macy's. Que train ride back to mid-town. Add bewildered boyfriend to mix.:::
Back at Macy's, I received a blank look when I explained the situation to a sales associate. He told me to sit down and that he would bring me my size. After about 10 pointless minutes, a manager noticed me and asked if I was being helped. Actually, no, and we have a BIG problem. She asserted that yes indeed, we did. Two more managers were soon after involved, all of whom expressed disgust and outrage at Ray's sexualized comments. "Oh, now I need a shower!" exclaimed the woman when I repeated Ray's come-ons. They were also baffled as to how he charged me for the shoes I wanted, then put *these nasty things* in my bag. After a lot of button pushing and smoothing of my ruffled feathers, I had the shoes I initially purchased AND a 25% discount on them. I did not have my evening back, however, not by a long shot. But something tells me Ray might be hearing about all of this next time he works...