Why I Hate The Mall
Originally published at Welcome To The Dollhouse. You can comment here or there.
eople often wonder why I do so much of my shopping online. Shoes, clothes, baby stuff, you name it, I buy it online. Why? Because I hate the mall. Hate it with a passion. So much so that I really have to gear myself up for the rare occasion that I must set foot inside one. Today was one of those days.
My dear Auntie M and her kids are flying out from LA to spend Thanksgiving with us. Because of this, Thanksgiving has to be different from last year where I prepared T-day dinner using a toaster oven (as our kitchen was in the long process of being remodeled). I needed a few things to get the house and the meal ready. So I ventured to King of Prussia Mall.
The trip started out pretty easily. Little Girl and I wended our way through Nordstrom emerging in the mall proper. We headed toward our main destination of Williams Sonoma (with a quick detour through Janie and Jack). In W-S, I found the turkey brine mixture and brine bags that I was looking for. I also found the flavor injector and injection herbs I was thinking about getting. But will brining and injecting be too much for one bird? I asked a salesperson. She didn’t know. Another one “thought” it might be too much. And I thought to myself, why didn’t I pose the question on a cooking forum before coming into this physical store without the needed information?
Next dilemma: is the $29 Emile Henry apple pie pan really worth it, or should I just use the one I have? It was deeper than my pie pan, but come on…
I opted for the brine without the flavor injector (but I reserve the right to change my mind) and did not get the Emile Henry pan. But the next things I needed were a tablecloth, placemats and napkins. I looked at W-S’s collection but didn’t find anything I liked. I then made my way to Pottery Barn. I saw a yellow-gold that was heavier on the yellow than the gold. But finding someone to help me was a futile exercise. I kept thinking, I should be home shopping online with a kitty at my feet.
So with brine but without tablecloth, I was about to wend my way to Macy’s until I realized something important: I was starving. I thought I would head to Roby’s Diner to grab something to eat. Unfortunately Ruby’s was on the 2nd level and with a stroller that means elevator. I managed to find a mall elevator and waited for 3 trips before I could board (and most of those people could have gone up the escalator). When I debarked, I saw that Ruby’s had a line of about a thousand people waiting to eat. That was out. This left me with the option of mall food. Is there anything more disgusting that mall food from a food court? I walked around and around finally settling on an overpriced sugarfree gelato and a bottled water. Little Girl happily sucked down her formula from her Podee bottle.
I worked through the sea of people back toward the elevator, when I saw one of my favorite stores: Sephora (though generally I shop online). Realizing that I was out of my Dr. Brandt’s skincare products, I ventured inside with the stroller (not easily done). They were having an Allure magazine party of some sort with wine and desserts. I opted for neither, but did stop by the Nars display. Nothing hit me there, but at Smashbox I saw a red, glittery gloss that I was about to buy. That is until I realized that it was one of those stupid lip plumping glosses. What the hell is up with these women who need their lips plumped? I don’t. My lips are nicely plumped naturally. Why can’t I have the stupid gloss without the plumpers? I really don’t need to look like someone punched me in the mouth!
I weaved through the aisles back to the Dr. Brandt’s products. On my way there, as had been happening all afternoon, people commented on how pretty Zara is. And she was being such a good girl. No crying. She spent her time awake singing, talking and smiling at everyone. I had reached my products when this sista came from the employee area in the back asking me if I needed help. She was maybe 21 and heavily made up, which I guess is de rigeur when you work in a cosmetics store. Then she saw Zara.
“Oh, is that your grandbaby?” she said smiling.
My face dropped heavily into a look that I know said, if this look could kill, you’d be worm food right now.
“No,” I replied tightly, “this is my daughter.”
“Oh.” She appeared clearly taken aback. Then she perked up again and asked, “what’s her nationality?”
By now, my look at gone from murderous to I-think-there’s-a-damn-fool-in-front-of-me. “She’s American.”
“No,” she laughed, “She’s mixed. What’s she mixed with?”
At this point, I considered using my dear friend Bernetta’s rejoinder, “Lady, my daughter is not a salad.” I decided that these words would go right over her head. Instead I just answered, “Her father is white.”
“Oh, she looks like one of those black mixed with Spanish babies. They are the cutest mixes.”
At this point, I was so fucking done. I grabbed my pore minimizing lotion or whatever the hell it was that I needed and went to the cash register. Getting away from the blaring music, perfume vultures and stupid-ass salespeople, I was furious. And you know what I was most furious about. (No, it wasn’t the “mixed” comment.) Do I really look so freaking old that I could be Zizi’s grandmother. Granted in that ignorant fool’s world, many probably are grandmothers by my age, but geez!
That was it for the mall. That was it for today’s tablecloth search. That was it, period. Zara and I were going home.
I returned to the parking garage and kept pressing the elevator button. The light wouldn’t stay on. I looked up and though the down arrow was lit, no floor numbers came up. Oh no. Yes, the elevator was stuck. So I had to carry Zara, the Orbit and my packages up the stairs to the car.
That settles it. I’m not going to another fucking mall.