Yesterday I was able to file my story remarkably early (3:00 Eastern: BAM). While I usually try to stay at work as long as possible to reduce the amount of time spent at home, I decided to leave in the twilight of 5:30 since I am staying in another angel's abode for a few days. This angel lives just over the Maryland border in a neighborhood filled to the brim with upscale shopping.
I decided to fill my newfound hour of solitude browsing through the posh offerings after a peek at my bank account showed I was many hundreds of dollars wealthier than I thought. I started at Saks 5th Avenue, which repeated viewing of Shopgirl should have shown me was a store meant for those many castes above me. I made a beeline for the "sale" display in the shoe section with hopes of replacing the boots that died on me. But even at 25 percent off, the lowest-priced were more than $300. That's so very many sandwiches I couldn't justify the expense.
Discouraged and trying to avoid having to tell nosy salespeople my paltry price limit, I fled to Neiman Marcus. I thought since I know a guy with the last name of Neiman and one with the first of Marcus, and neither is very fancy, the store would follow suit. Apparently retail doesn't follow my logic.
The crow in me was immediately attracted to three racks full of shiny sparkly party dresses, all marked 30 percent off. Alas, ten minutes' worth of browsing failed to yield a frock under a hundo. My sigh of distress must have alerted a snooty saleslady, who gave me snooty elevator eyes before snootily asking if she could help me. I bumbled a response saying I was doing quite fine on my own, thank you, and she turned on her snooty heel and went back to her perch to watch me.
I farted in her general direction.
Then I left, deciding to instead splurge my excess of cash on grocery store sushi and strawberries. And I feasted. So. There.
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