Shopping With Cheryl

I have recently been reminded of how much I hate to shop. Well, let me correct myself. Put me in my favorite market with all that fabulous produce and I will spend more money than I have sense and spend hours over a hot stove for friends and loved ones serving up all manner of fodder. And may I mention that no-one has thrown anything back at me? When I start a sentence with, "Hey, I'm cooking, wanna come over and" I never get to finish the sentence. Let's go back a few years and start with a perfectly good example of what it is like to shop with Cheryl.

I don't even know what time of year it was, but a shopping spree was planned that included myself, my mother, my daughter and my sister. We ended up in one of those department type of stores that had home goods in the middle surrounded by a lovely walk path and different departments flanking that walk path. And let's all remember that I am short. Shorter than most clothing racks. Mother spent untold hours looking at every garment. I'd swear it was hours. My sister was in the shoe isle. I bet every pair in her size was tried on. Tina was planning a wedding, so house wares were on her shopping list. I looked around and then took a stroll.

Everyone lost sight of me. My daughter spotted a sales clerk and asked if she had seen a short lady with red hair. The clerk said, "Wait here about another 18 seconds and she will pass by. She has been circling the building like a caged lion." People! I was strolling!

Not long after I landed this new job it came to my attention that I needed to be back in suits and not the rather casual sportswear that I had donned at my previous employment where I was climbing in attics, fixing toilets and shoveling dead bunnies on top of running a rather large church office. I was now in a nice office with people who did those other jobs.

Explain the shoveling bunnies you ask? Well, one Spring near Easter time, the head mistress of our church school came into my office in a panic. "There's a dead rabbit in the main drop off driveway. Kids will be arriving at any moment. We don't want them to think we murdered the Easter Bunny. What do we do????" Well, the obvious answer was to get a shovel and place poor Peter in the dumpster. But I didn't say that. I said I would take care of it. I went to the custodial closet, got the shovel and scooped up poor Flopsy Mopsy and walked to the back of the church. Once at the dumpster I realized that the dumpster was much taller than me or my reach with the shovel. I GENTLY set Peter-Flopsy-Mopsy on the ground, raised the dumpster lid with the shovel, scooped him back up again and hoisted said bunny in the air. Uh, Oh. The best laid plans of mice and men started to go South on me. Peter began to slip down the handle of the shovel. He slid at a rate so fast an Olympic Luge team would have been proud. I tried twice more with the same results. Now my sleeve was coated in various bunny parts I knew were not the best of accessories for the day. So I grabbed him by the ears and hurled him over the dumpster like dunking a basketball. He hit the bottom with a thud just before the first car pulled in the drive. I slammed the lid to the dumpster shut and returned to my office. My assistant asked if I had been successful. I said yes. However, my outfit was not a success. Needless to say, the staff howled with laughter at the telling of my tale.

So the old wardrobe had to be left behind and a new one was in order. I summoned my sister and her red headed daughter, Patricia. If you haven't read the piece on Patricia, do so. It will help you visualize what transpired on the shopping trip to hell.

About the only clothing store I will patronize is Palais Royal. They generally carry a couple of petite sizes. My choice is limited, so if I see nothing to try on, I am off the hook and can walk out without the obligatory humiliation in the dressing room. While not necessarily on the line, my job was certainly part of the big picture in this venture. Alicia and Tricia accompanied me on the field trip and helped me scope out a few suits. I needed at least five or seven to start with. Once I was ensconced in the dressing room, they would bring me a new outfit as I passed over others.

It wasn't twelve minutes before I was disgusted with my choices, pissed off at the size of my ass and ready to get out of there. I said, "I'm through." and pressed down the door handle and pushed. The door wouldn't budge. Patricia had set herself on the floor with her back against the door, placed her feet such that they could wedge her body to the door, thus she effectively barricaded me in the dressing room. "Hey. I can't open the door. Go get someone." "We know that." was the response on the other side. "You can't come out until you have five outfits." "No way. Let me out." "Not gonna."

Trapped. In a dressing room. With black and pink wall paper. Standing with mirrors on three sides to clearly show me how much weight I have gained. This was not fair. Why couldn't it be one of those uptown boutiques that had those skinny mirrors? Remember the old Seinfeld episode with Elaine buying the dress, then seeing herself in other mirrors down the street? Well, my panic was much worse. I was well past my good behavior time slot for shopping. Three more suits came sailing over the door and landed on my head. My sister, who is a shopper, was in her element. I just knew she was getting back at me for something from the past. We'll just say I wasn't gracious. We finally came to an impasse. They took pity on me after other customers in dressing stalls started laughing while listening to our conversation, especially after I cried out in desperation, "There's nothing here that will cover the Buick parked on my back porch! Please let me out." One patron two stalls down said, "Oh, honey. I know the feeling."

Months later, still trying to complete a wardrobe, I was in a specific section of a women's wear store. I like to wear larger, loose shirts over a shell top with pants. So I patronize the 1x department. They have lovely stuff. However, I am still shorter than the racks and have a tough time getting attention from sales clerks. I approached someone and posed a question. She was quick to respond, "Oh, sweetheart, you don't belong in this department. This is the women's department." while trying not to say the words BIG WOMEN. I quickly responded, "Have you seen the Buick parked on my back porch? I qualify as big in places. Besides that, a hundred years ago I was a big lady!" She chuckled and gave me a little help as she was helping another patron, with whom I struck up a conversation. My shopping counterpart was fussing about all the new blouses having such low cut cleavage and how all the young girls didn't mind if their bras showed or what hung out. She stated that this poses considerable issues for young men in church. She went on to say it also posed issues for older guys in church and began to tell me about one particular Sunday. Now I must say that I really admire black women. They are beautiful. They don't show their age because of all that wonderful Melanin in their skin. They don't mince words, and they take action when action is needed. She proceeded to tell me about one Sunday when prayer meeting went a little long. A lot of prayers were needed that Sunday, and she was thinking her husband was getting hungry and restless. She could feel his movements. Then she realized that she needed to not be so 'prayerful' and take a look-see at what was going on. Every chance he could get, he was swinging his head to get a look at a young lady with all the goods she could possibly display out in plain sight for anyone to enjoy. She said she quietly slipped her left arm through his right, rested her other hand on his upper arm and slipped her fingers in and took a chunk of flesh between her two fingers and twisted it good. He settled right down. I told her that was priceless. We went on to thumb through racks. I lasted about five minutes.

I'll just wrap it up to say, if you need a shopping partner, don't call me unless you have a good story to tell. And may I state firmly that there will never be a trip for the garment known as the bathing suit! I'll be pregnant before that happens.