So if you’ve been following me on Twitter, you know that I’ve been on a mad hunt for a dress to wear to my 20 year high school reunion that’s coming up in August. And let me just tell you that the pickins? They’re pretty freaking slim, people. Everything I’ve found looks like I’m either going to a prom or down to turn tricks on the corner. That being said, I thought I’d bring some fashion consultants along with me over the weekend to give a second opinion on some of the possibilities I’d found. And what I concluded after a horrendous two-hour excursion to the mall was that I will NEVER EVER take my family shopping with me again.
Let’s start with the first little boutique I’d dragged them into, shall we? First and foremost, the music they were blaring in this place was anything but appropriate for kids. Every other word was “bitch” this and/or “fuck” that, and while I may have been shaking my own booty to the beat on a solo mission to this store, it wasn’t exactly what I want my little pipsqueaks to be repeating at our next family sing-a-long. So, with the f-bombs dropping in the background, I quickly made my way back to the dressing rooms to model the potential dress contenders. Meanwhile, my horn-sprouting lil’ devils were busying themselves crawling in and out of all the dressing room doors and raising all kinds of H-E-double hockey sticks. Where was Paul Blart when I needed him??!! Luckily, my choices were quickly poo-pooed by my voting committee, and we were able to exit the store without being physically removed.
We then moved on to the next store, which was nothing but a brief drive-by since everyone suddenly needed to pee. Thank God my husband had the wherewithall to sense that mama needed some alone time, so he took the minions to the potty while I continued my uphill battle for the perfect dress. When I finally felt like I’d found a couple of REAL prospects, I texted my husband where to meet up with me. However, by the time they reached my location on the mall map, the kiddos had had just about all the shopping fun they could handle. They were hungry. They were tired. They were bored. They were thirsty. They wanted to do nothing but bitch, bitch, bitch. The final straw that broke the ol’ camel’s back was when my son picked up a random brush he’d found lying on the floor and ran it through his hair. I knew it was time to call it a day at this point, since I obviously needed to go home and sterilize the hell out of the kid’s frickin’ head. Clearly, like all my lectures, the warnings about the dangers of lice had fallen on deaf ears.
So, needless to say, I came home from the mall once again sans dress. Not only will I never take my family with me on another shopping expedition ever again, but I will also apparently be going to my reunion in my birthday suit. I figure I can throw a paper bag over my head, and be done with it. The only problem is I’m not really sure where I’ll put my name tag….