Shopping Trip from Hell

December 30, 2006 at 3:09 pm | Posted in misc, whitney | Leave a comment

Some people call shopping a sport. These people are idiots of the variety that buy into that Everyone Loves That Raymond Buttmunch with the Stupid Voice version of gender where Ray’s wife walks in out of the kitchen complaining about Raymond watching The Game while she has so much work to do around the house what with the kids and the dishes and such, but then he reminds her that she spent $___ shopping yesterday and he works hard to make that money that she spends and blahblahblah. I guess men enjoy watching football and women enjoy spending men’s money, and so we can therefore refer to shopping as the female equivalent of sport.

The only thing I hate more than people who call shopping a sport is shopping itself. OMG what a waste of time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m girly as shit. Just ask my roommate who has to hear me complaining about this huge ass pimple on my chin, or maybe about how much I love Eric Idle/Phillip Marlowe/Bob Dylan/Hott Babes. Girly.As.Shit. But there is nothing more torturous than following your mother around some cheap department store watching her pick out those jeans with the fatpeople creases already bleached out and turning around to whisper that you need a new bra and that maybe we should go to Victoria Secrets to get fitted because Oprah says and blahblahblahblahblahblah.

Yeah, that’s right motherfuckers, I shop with my mom. Because every year around this time she starts tallying all the jeans with holes I wear home on Sundays and the shirts with the coffee stains and torn lace and decides that I need something nice to wear to church. Something I can “always have.” With the prospect of free clothing and getting the yearly trip out of the way, I follow her, not having the heart to tell her that 1) I don’t go to church anymore, and 2) I’m already making plans to start dressing exactly like that little girl on Little Miss Sunshine.

And so, with my mother commenting on the shortness of my legs, the bulge of my so-optimistically-referred-to-as-love-handles, and how misshaped my breasts are (can we get away from the talk of titties, mother??) I am forced to examine these loud print, silky whatever blouse things in those three mirrors angled just the right direction so your eyes can’t keep away from your seriously unfortunate ass and I just keep trying to think “Dostoevsky, Sullivan, Bazin Bazin Bazin…I have better things to think about.” But how can you escape the ideological pull of women’s dressing rooms, really?

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