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Holy Shit! I’m in a Mall

Holy Shit! I’m in a Mall

HolyShitImInAMallAnyone who knows me personally, knows I’m borderline many things, not the least of which: agoraphobic. A few other things:

  • I hate shopping
  • I hate crowds
  • I hate shopping
  • I hate malls
  • I am so not a shopper

But guess what? It was Wednesday and my sitter showed up and I had to, just had to, hit the mall. No choice. #noexcuses as I see on so many things these days.

Well, I had a few #agoraphobic #WouldRatherEatShit excuses but off I went.

AlphabeticHave Back-Up

You need someone to keep six if you’re an agoraphobe going to market. And I had back-up. Her name is Paula. I love her. She keeps my wrists closed a LOT. So does my friend Terri, but I didn’t have her on WhatsApp so Paula, then Melody (while Paula was in the car, thousands of miles away from me in California) helped admirably.

Lack of Indexing

Part of the reason I hate shopping is the lack of indexing in consumerism. I want to find my products by certain taxonomies. I want an index. I want things sorted. This is a job for Michel Foucault.

Pop Pop, Pop Music

Oh, and I hate pop music. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m either ambient, jazz, 20th century, or psychedelic. If I thought they’d have Spirit playing over the speakers, or some Harold Budd, I’d be all over it. Instead, something was playing but only the good ladies of my Momfia group would know what it was.


I found this cute bra in the girls’ section, next to the Dora training undies, no kidding. My cup size, if I rolled my boobs up, just sayin’. Oh, and if I had an 18 inch ribcage. I wasn’t looking for bras but I thought it was cute. But seriously? Next to the pee pee undies. Hmmmm.

I was on a mission for undies though. And found some sensible undies in some department store on sale no less. No. No photos of my undies, thank you. I don’t have a wide-angled lens.

YesHo Ho Ho Wear!

But undergarments seemed to be continually in my sight-lines. Note this little gem. I wish I could wear something like this. Despite the fact that I mostly look like a dude, I love cute undies.

I noticed Paula didn’t reply when I asked her if it was a good call. She was likely googling “other places to be when Tracey texts“.



SomeoneBarfed-nologoFood, Glorious Food Court!

Then I got hungry. I knew Paula would understand my need for noodles. Who doesn’t need noodles? And saturated fat? I’m only 32 pounds over-weight as I approach the dark side of menopause.

While a salad seemed to be called-for, what my estrogen-drop really wanted was noodles.

I used to live in Chinatown and great noodles, 24/7/365 were always to be found. But I’m in a mall today. Tip? There are no good noodles in a food court. I know everyone reading this already knew that.

I haven’t been a mall since December 20, 2013 (note the trend). I haven’t eaten in a Food Court since 2002, back when I had a “real” job (with benefits and a closing door to my quiet office). Hard to believe I used to wear a powersuit and heels, right? Right? And be a size 4 and wear contacts and flip my hair just so?

How the mighty have fallen. Oh, and me too.

The Hair Treatment Kiosk Trap

I rarely post photos of me because I’m self-conscious of the fact that the left side of my jaw has nerve damage and some paralysis from dental surgery. So I’m neurotic. But for this, a photo is necessary. But I’m too neurotic to post it. Nah, I’ll post it.

ANYHOODLE. I was wearing a pair of jeans, running shoes, black shirt, black hoodie (belonging to 27 YO DS#2), hair pulled back severely into a puny tail — not a pony tail, a puny tail. My last “trim” was a “chop” and I’m two snips away from bald right now. I haven’t had a shower yet because I was go go go that morning. I looked AWFUL. By the way, Paula always looks fan-fucking-tastic. I would hate her if I didn’t love her so much. 

And then a Kiosk Snake approached me in a faux French accent. This is the best part of my day:

Unretouched except for the arrow, showing my bad hair. As you can see, I was pixelated as a child. There is no cure.

SNAKE: Excuse me, how long is your hair?

I should make an audio file impersonating it because her fake accent was sooo bang-on bad. It’s how a comedian would do a French accent. She’s clearly trying to do a Parisian accent, failing miserably at the “nose” thing. 

ME: Shoulderish. 

My eyes glaze over. I’ve been here for four minutes and I’m stressed. 

SNAKE: Uh, ‘ow do you say, what do you use for ‘air treatment?

She doesn’t say her H’s and she says “treatment” like this: tree-MENT.

ME: laughing out loud full and heartily. I don’t use hair treatment. That should be obvious. 

Normally I’m really nice to service providers and Kiosk Snakes. We all have to make a living. But I’m massively stressed by movement and bright lights, which is abundant in a mall. And really, I look awful. If I weren’t so narcissistic I would post a clear photo of my ugliness yesterday.

SNAKE: Um yes. Why don’t you use ‘air treatment?

ME: Really? Look at me. I’m not your demographic. I barely comb my hair. I’m sorry to rush but I know I’ll never buy anything for my hair which contains the word “serum.”

SNAKE: Oh dear. You should try some. 

She grabs my hand to press something which feels like a wrapped condom in my hand.

SNAKE: Take this ‘ome and try it. And smile. I’m sure you look very nice when you smile.

Dude, Where’s My Car?

Ok, I know where my car is because I took a picture of the lot BEFORE I entered the mall. But I forgot to take a photo of the entrance.

I have completed my mission.

I ate something.

a) Animal?

b) Vegetable?

c) Mineral?

d) None of the above

And now I had to get out of the mall. My sitter charges by the hour and frankly, she makes more money than I do.  

I texted Melody who doesn’t always have WhatsApp on. I don’t know how that is possible, but there you go. It happens.

Her mission, although she doesn’t know it, is to distract me so I don’t panic that I cannot remember which entrance I used for the mall. The only thing I remember is asking a very pretty brunette woman where the bathroom was. 

But she’s going to a meeting. Paula’s in a car. And it took me one hour and $214 dollars before I found the egress (the Bay, south entrance).

The Bay.


Who can tell?

When All I REALLY Wanted to Do was Finish this Book

DoubleStrikeDOUBLE STRIKE by Gretchen Archer. I’m sooo close to done. My vision was that I’d go to the mall, buy the requisite items, take a leisurely coffee in a squishy chair in some soothing cafe and have a read. Instead I wandered, was caught by a Kiosk Snake, got lost trying to remember which stupid entrance/exit. And I read diddly squat. 

And now I’ve come to share.





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