Even store clerks are entertaining these days. Check out these two employees who were kind enough to let me click my Kodak in their trendy bar, I mean store. Yep, these outgoing “sales associates” were ready, willing, and able to help any and all dazed and confused shoppers under the age of 23, find that perfect frock.
As we maneuvered our way through a sea of people, I realized I hate crowds. I know the word hate should not be used lightly, and I did pause before typing it. Yes, I did consider a few optional phrases such as “gee, crowds annoy me” and “the two million people at the mall made shopping somewhat difficult”, but I can’t lie to my loyal bloggers. Truth be told I had a hard time not tossing in a few expletives to accompany the hate word, but I refrained…I’m trying to run a classy joint here.
Now remember I am with my 15-year-old daughter Emma, so we are moving at light speed through stores that look more like mini nightclubs for kids who are still waiting to shave. The store fronts look like Hollywood sets, not a place to buy undies and faded blue jeans. I’m surprised these taverns, I mean stores, don’t have mobile bars set up. Little bar wagons where these gum smackin’, acne fightin’, label seekin’ young folks could belly up to, and order a frosty virgin daiquiri.
There is one particular store that is so dim you can’t tell if you are pulling out a $50 or $100 bill from your wallet when paying. Notice I didn’t even bother to mention the long forgotten $20 bill, that will get you one greasy dough ball and a 4oz. diet Pepsi at the Pretzel kiosk located in the center of the mall.
The safety commission should really require these teen pubs, I mean stores, to install airplane floor lighting for folks who are only in there because they have no choice. Call me stupid, but it just makes good sense to ensure the safety of the parents, you know the pale, worn out helpless looking people who actually foot the bill on these thin threaded tees, flimsy sandals made from twine, and body spray that can double as ant repellant. But instead these stores continue to market only to the kidults. (I make up fitting words I call cindyisms. Just a head’s up so you won’t waste time googling) A Kidult is a 14,15, or 16-year-old that is stumbling through adolescence. They aren’t quite a kid, and they certainly aren’t in the adult category yet. These peeps are traveling through the dreaded black hole. Surviving the journey through the black hole, requires the use of highly trained operatives. Individuals with experience, tenacity, and nerves of steel. This elite group of warriors are often overlooked, even though they have dedicated their lives to serving tirelessly and often without proper recognition. These loyal soldiers are called Parents. With their help, most Kidults will survive the black hole and eventually live productive lives.
If you somehow lose your kid in one of these bars, I mean stores, you’re up doo-doo creek without a paddle. It would be way too dark to see precious Jimmy Jr. anywhere in the store. I now carry a mini survival kit when shopping with my teen. My unsightly double stitched stain resistant fanny pack includes a glow in the dark flashlight, extra strength Tylenol, a small cross, a rabbit’s foot, and a tiny four-leaf clover. I thought about including a small flask filled with a tasty libation, however a shot of happy juice might slow down my reaction time if I suddenly found myself in an emergency search and rescue mission.
Screaming the names of lost offspring is not an option either, simply because the only thing audible is the mind numbing non-stop beat of Lady Ga Ga ( real person, feel free to google her!) blasting on the stereo system.
Resorting to primal methods is out too. It would be a fruitless attempt to tap into the human body’s ancient Neanderthal cell memory, which could possibly restore our prehistoric ability to sniff out our young…sort of like bears and wolves. Cell phones killed any chance of that attribute ever returning to homosapiens. Bottom line is, little Jimmy would be trapped in the bamboo covered hut/dressing room forever. Long story short….. it would be literally impossible to smell our first born’s DNA while shopping in one of these youth oriented stores, because all natural odors are permanently destroyed by the multiple display racks of unisex fragrances named after prepositions (yes you read that correctly, not a typo). Cologne’s called “With” ….”At” ….. “Before” …..and “After”. Hell, they could call it “Duh” and the kidults would eat it up. Personally, I think they should limit the line to only five fragrances. “We” …”Are”….”A”….”Rip”….”Off”. This semi-scented tap water retails for $48.50 for a 2 oz. bottle, and yes, it flies off the shelf. Why? Because it’s guaranteed to turn your awkward 13 year into a Love God or Goddess. Oh my, that flask is sounding better by the minute.
One final thought on the benefits of being able to actually see in the store. If there was more visibility, we could then spot the cash register. That’s that shiny box located on the big white counter. That scary place where you are robbed in broad daylight, or should I say broad dimness. Okay, okay, the cash register is actually where you pay…….With Your Life! Somehow things have gotten upside down. We are buying our non-working kids fifty dollar sweatshirts with the letter A printed on the front. That “A” stands for ATM, cause that’s where you’re headed before you can buy this 9 inch crap of fleece, I mean scrap of fleece. And where are we shopping? We’re at the local mini mall buying our holiday frocks at Tarjai, or if we get the urge to splurge, we go to J.C. Pannai! (teens think the J.C. stands for “Just Crap”)
Teens walk out of “their” stores with glossy bags complete with canvas handles, and an inappropriate photo of a half-naked man sporting a tummy made of steel plastered on the front. Parents on the other hand are leaving “their” stores with thin plastic bags complete with pseudo handles, and a cheap image of a red bullseye plastered on the front. I despise…I loathe…no I hate those so-called “handles”. These are not handles on “our” bags, these are called SLITS…not handles! My handy-dandy worn out Webster reads: slit n. a straight narrow opening. Need I say more! These slits would work perfectly fine if we had fins instead of hands. Might of worked 2 billion years ago, but I doubt we were in need of a pair of flip-flops, a can of Suave extra strength hair mousse, or the latest copy of People’s Sexiest Fishman Alive. (cindyism) To top it off, these hellish bags are hazardous to our health. If you carry anything weighing more than 6 ounces in one of these toxic bags, the slithandles (cindyism) turn into self-mutilating ninja weapons….reason enough to go green!
Anyhow, I am totally off track and beginning to sound a lot like Andy Rooney, so back to the mall. By the end of this four-hour long torture, I mean adventure, I was caught up on all the latest trends. I am now officially up to speed on what’s hip! Wrong word? Hip’s not hip, right? Hmmmm, give me a minute… cool?… awesome?….I’ve got it! “Sic” is the word I am looking for! Not, the Yuckinitis (cindyism) kind that I have been battling the past 2 weeks….but the “hip” kinda “sic”…oh whatever!
Here are some fotos of some “Sic” stuff from our day at the mall. Happy Holidays!