$25.00, A Piece of Pizza and Some Dignity

me: ow! *finally finding the husband at the computer looking up bike racing information*
the husband: what's wrong, baby?
me: ow! *pointing to my thighs*
the husband: *laughter*
me: seriously. The hills and I have an understanding. . . . . . . we hate each other. I tried to tell you. And, just to reiterate, ow!
the husband: are you going to be okay? *baby voice followed by more laughter*
me: no. *I am a baby*
the husband: it's good for you. . . . . What would you like me to do? *laughing and laughing and laughing*
me: you did this on purpose *almost, but not quite crying*
the husband: welcome to my world! *then with a ninja stealth-like maneuver deliberately taps my iliotibial band*
me: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! *explodes through roof of house*
me: that's not funny! *musn't cry. mustn't cry. I'm not a baby. I'm not a baby.*
the husband: *laughing uncontrollably*
me: you'll pay for your sins. . . . . . . you'll pay. *limping off to a corner to lick my wounds*

If You'd Rather Change My Diaper

I just read that Eva Longoria is the new spokesperson for Bebe. I do not heart Bebe. I do not heart Eva - though she was pretty good in "The Sentinel" - and that might give me a glimmer of hope. After all, I was totally wrong in my disdain for Ellen. I heart Ellen. Now. She seems a pretty good gal.

You are wondering as to why I am posting about Bebe and Eva?

Well, this breaking spokesperson news reminded me of something that happened almost 2-years ago for I needed a dress to attend an upcoming wedding. I used the Internet to surf through a gazillion stores to find my fabulous dress. I do not heart shopping. Strange phenomenon for a girl, I know. When it comes to buying the clothes I would rather get in and get out as fast as possible! Thus, the Internet surfing. I finally landed at Bebe. Great! There was a store in my backyard and I found a dress I loved. Somehow, I talked the husband into going with me.

Off we went. As we were walking through the mall about to make a right hand turn into Bebe when the husband spotted the Apple Store. He made a sharp left before I could even utter a syllable of protest. He said he'd be quick and meet me later. Off I went to Bebe myself. Alone.

I will clarify and start here: I am not a size 0. I never have been a size 0 except for my days in infancy and even then that is questionable. I am not a size 2, nor 4, nor 6, nor - you get the point. I am also not a teenager. I hadn't been one for almost 14-years at that point. And I thank God for that! This is all very important information for the following conversation I had with the sales associate who was more concerned with helping the rich mothers of the teeny-tiny-who-need-to-eat-a-cheeseburger-or-2-daughters. No, I'm not bitter. Just a paying customer. I had a Julia Roberts moment from "Pretty Woman," "I have money to spend here! No one will help me!" Except I wasn't a hooker dressed as a hooker, I was only a size 10.

Me standing outside my dressing room for 6.34 minutes (my best guess - it was 2-years ago).
Sales associate nonchalantly walks on by (several, several times).
Finally, "Oh. Do you need some help." (sigh)
"I do! Please! Could you see what size that dress is on the mannequin for me?"
Sales associate looks behind her, then around the room and finally to where I am pointing, which was the only mannequin in the entire dressing room.
"Um. That dress would not look good on you. You wouldn't fit in it."
She then walked away from me as if she just lifted her leg and peed on my bare feet.

I retreated to the dressing room, sat on the bench and tried my very best not to cry. I heard the husband. I invited him into the dressing room. My lip was trembling and my eyes were starting to fill with tears. He looked at me, "honey, what's wrong?" And I threw up all over him the story about what just took place. Very sternly he looked at me and said, "get dressed. We are leaving here." I said I had found some things to buy. He said, "no. We are not buying anything from here. We are leaving. Now." The husband was clearly mad and I believe that somehow he was suffocating the urge to punch or throttle this girl as I continued to try and not collapse into a heaping pile of cry on the dressing room floor. I changed. We left.

The husband took me outside to a bench where I finally broke down and cried with his arm around me.