jennsylvania

You In The Size Zero Pants, Finish Your Carrot Sticks And Skip This Post

As I promised on Twitter earlier, here's your Big Girls' Guide to Online Style post. 

(If you'd all hold on for a moment while I congratulate myself for actually doing what I promised I'd do when I promised I'd do it and not, say, at some distant point in the future when everyone will have forgotten the original promise, I'd appreciate it.)  (Of course, I'm pretty much writing this post as a way to put off my first round of book revisions.)  (Apparently the only way to get me to do anything is to assign me something slightly easier to accomplish than the original task.)

Anyway, clothing, yes.

Before I start posting links, I must first offer up a confession:  I hate shopping.

More specifically, I hate shopping for clothes. (FYI, I love shopping for rugs, candles, and dog toys.)  That doesn't mean I don't like having new things, but the process of buying clothes?  The process makes me weary. 

When I was younger, I used to shop for fun and leisure until it dawned on me that I despise the planning and the driving and the parking and the pawing through racks, searching for the right size at the right price, finally locating something potentially appropriate and affordable, entering a cramped little room, standing shoeless on a floor where a million other dirty feet have been before me, and only then realizing that all the work was for naught because the pants/skirt/dress/sweater is too big/small/ugly/wrong.

And that was before I got fat.

If you've ever shopped for plus size stuff, it's the same nightmare as above, only multiplied by 1,000. 

I've found the easiest way to get what I want is via the internet.  Yes, there are a few exceptional brick and mortar spots (Lenox Square Macy's in Buckhead, I'm looking at you, and Nordstrom, if you're having a sale) and some serviceable value choices (Target, Kohls, Lane Bryant) but the best variety is online.  Plus, when I shop at home, the only dirty floor my feet touch is my own.

Granted, if budget's no issue, you can always stock up in-store on beautiful, well-tailored items at places like Neiman Marcus and Saks... if you can find their fat girl shops through the employee break room, across the loading dock, behind the utility closet, and up a service elevator.  (Oh, and by the way, NeimanMarcus.com?  FUCK YOU for not using plus size girls to model anything but $300 velor track suits.  Do you really think seeing 1X sweaters on a size 2 model is the very best way to sell to us?  ARGH.)

Ahem, anyway, let's begin.

OHMIGOD, SHOES

Shoes may seem like an odd item to include first, because like purses or jewelry or scarves, shoes always fit, yes?  Yes, except for boots.  If your calves have a greater circumference than an Olive Garden breadstick, you probably have trouble finding boots that zip, unless you want to buy those stupid little ankle booties, which... no.

The good news is extended calf boots exist.

The bad news is your healthy-calved sisters already know they exist and those bitches will snap up every pair before you can say "Happy Thanksgiving."  So if you want them, buy them now, now, now!

Zappos is one of the best resources for extended calf boots.  For example, I got these last year and I LUF THEM.  Manufacturers like Ros Hommerson, Fitzwell, rsvp, and Naturalizer make boots with wider shafts and Zappos stocks them all.  Plus, they couldn't make it easier to get a few pair for sizing purposes and return what doesn't fit.

J. Crew has some pricier (but gorgeous) offerings, as do Eddie Bauer and Silhouettes.  And if you've got a pair that almost-so-close-so-close-so-close-but-not-quite fit, you can take them to a shoe repair shop and have them stretched.

PREPPY IS FOREVER

Today's one of those days I'm kicking myself for living in the midwest.  Were we to maintain a constant eighty degrees here, I'd pretty much never have to shop again, save for replacing a worn pair of khaki shorts or salad-dressing stained Lacoste.  Oh, and by the way, a lot of you - including the very, very famous person I talked to last year in my kitchen in an experience I've been contractually obligated to never write about - want to know how I find Lacostes that fit since the women's sizes aren't terribly generous.

Simple.

I wear men's. 

Small women can't wear men's Lacostes because the crocodile hits in an unfortunate place but for those of us familiar with, um, gravity, that's not an issue.  As for sizing, Lacostes start at a 2, which is XXS, and go up to a 9, equivalent to 3XL.  And one time I saw Michael Clark Duncan in a Lacoste on Two and a Half Men.  Point?  If they can fit him, they can fit you.  And they come in 54 colors!

Yes, they average about $70 each, but I've been wearing them in my current size for about ten years and they've never fallen apart.  I've gotten rid of a few, but only because (a) salad-dressing stains, and, (b) I cut them up for a Dirty Shirty party.

Remember?  I ripped off this idea from The Preppy Handbook last year:

Yeah, I totally won Best Shirt prize.

Also, I went to the party again this year and had to top last year's entry.  I went with this:

 

Next year I'll have to suck it up and actually buy a stupid, profane print t-shirt because I don't have any more crocs to cut and the joke's getting old.

I've gotten some questions on where I got all the Madras plaid shorts and capris I wore on book tour.  I bought the fabric on Three Chickadees and had them made.  Price-wise, each item worked out to about $50 each.  In this economy, I'm not going to tell all the big girls, "Just have everything made!" but in the context of a special occasion item with a perfect fit, maybe it makes sense.  Also?  I supplemented my tour clothes with pieces from Land's End, Eddie Bauer, and L.L. Bean.  Good fit, easy return policies, quick shipping.  What's not to like? 

Speaking of classic, tailored clothing, why did no one tell me Talbots stocked plus??  Look at this sweater - look at it!  If this isn't the real me, I don't know what is.

 

WHAT IF I WANT SOMETHING THAT'S, YOU KNOW, ACTUALLY STYLISH?  AND WASN'T FEATURED IN THE PREPPY HANDBOOK?  (OR DOESN'T COME FROM A STORE THAT SELLS CANOES?)

Fine, you don't have to dress like me. 

(Which is not to say you shouldn't, because tailored items in stiffer cottons hang nicely and can be quite flattering.)

One of my favorite e-tailers is Alight.com.  I mean, for one, they have a boutique called Pretty in Plaid.  How do I not dig that?  Also, they have the most extensive collection of fun, casual dresses I've ever seen online.  Most are constructed with an Empire waist which will absolutely play up your best assets and cover those parts you don't love.  A lot of the dresses trend summer-y, but paired with leggings and a cardigan, they'd be adorable any season.

Igigi is a little more pricey than Alight, but they also have more sophisticated, professional items.  Today I stumbled across this dress and it pretty much took my breath away.   Kiyonna has gorgeous work clothes, too.

I love both Igigi and Kiyonna, although I'm more likely to wear basics from from Old Navy and J. Jill.  I'd complain that I can't buy their plus merchandise in the actual stores, but who am I kidding?  I'd much rather shop from home.

I've always been a fan of Ralph Lauren's plus stuff because these items seem to be cut with our proportions in mind.  Again, it's more pricey than a lot of what else I've listed, but sometimes paying more for a classic piece is worth it.

Torrid is a little young for me, but last year they sponsored part of Stephanie Klein's book tour and that kicks ass.  Stephanie's not plus-size, but her book Moose is a fat camp memoir and lots of the kids shopping in Torrid could identify with what she wrote. 

And... now I'll go off on a tangent, because it occurs to me that I'm bothered.  Lots of famous designers hold parties for authors.  Someone's always hosting a lavish fete in their posh Soho location and the press is always there, touting both the book and the style.  But outside of Torrid, I've never seen any designer or retail outlet associate with big girl.  And actually, one of my friends asked the Chicago Marina Rinaldi store to lend her an outfit for a huge public event and they were absolutely not interested.

Maybe it's just that big girls don't buy anything?

Oh, wait...

(P.S.  In terms of FTC disclosure, no one's given me anything to write about them.  And if they did, I'd probably ask to be paid in rugs, candles, and dog toys anyway.)

Thank You, Natasha! (And Screw You, Angie)

You guys ever notice how I'm always, "Blah blah blah, I don't accept ads, I don't take anything from vendors or PR firms, I don't go on junkets, etc"? 

Because I have integrity.  And I can't be bought.

Turns out that's just because no one ever offered me anything I wanted before.  So, when my favorite company in the world said they'd like to send me a couple of things (as my last book was basically a love letter to them), I said yes.

Honestly, I was hoping for maybe a mousepad and a coffee cup, which I kind of needed because all my favorite pit bull mugs have broken lately.  (Gravity problems.)  But they had something different in mind.

Behold my magnificent booty:

Yes, all these shoes are by Crocs.  Even the ones you cannot deny are ridiculously cute.

Here's a close-up on the Mary Janes:

(It's not a good close up, but that's my fault, not the shoes.) 

These are from the YOU by Crocs line and also come in black, green, and hot pink.  They're leather-lined and have an extra squashy foot bed and they're the most comfortable 3.5 inch heels you'll ever own.  Get them for yourself here.  And you can see the silver strappy ones here.

This should neatly prove once and for all I do not have terrible taste in shoes, ANGIE.

Although, I recently got these:

Perhaps I shouldn't be quite so smug about my scorching sense of style.  When I was telling friends at dinner last night about these, someone posed the question, "Where the fuck are you going to wear mouse shoes?" to which Manic Mommy quickly replied, "Disneyland?"

Anyway, I'm going to be away from my computer for the weekend and there won't be any new posts before Tuesday.  'Til then, discuss for whom you'd sell out, given the chance.

(And now I need to take my Crocs shrine down before the contractor comes and thinks I'm hosting a tea party for my shoes.)

Smokey, Smokey, Smokey

The last post may have given you the impression that I've been doing nothing but buying cute dresses to prepare myself for the tour. 

That's not at all true - it's just that I've purchased almost nothing but Champion t-shirts and mesh workout bottoms for the last year, so shopping for pretty stuff has been a delight.  (Especially since new shoes may or may not have been involved.) 

In case you're wondering, here's what I got:

Available from Nordstrom.com.

(I got these exact same shoes, only in taupe, available on Zappos.com.  They look really comfortable, but trust me, it's an illusion.)

This swirly-skirted dress comes in white, chocolate, or lilac.  I picked lilac because the beads are silver.  I got it at Vive La Femme on Damen Ave in Chicago, possibly the greatest store ever for items size 12 and up.  (Not local?  Buy it on Alight.com.)

I bought these shoes for my book events last year and will be pairing them with the lilac dress.

They are, hmm... what's the word I'm looking for?  Oh, yes, CRIPPLING.  They cause pain to shoot up my spine with every step I take.  Yet they completely dress up shorts and a polo shirt, so you can see my dilemma.

This one's available on LolaandGigi.com.  The weird thing is, I got this exact same dress in person at Nordstrom and the label says Jessica Howard Woman but the one online is by Donna Rico.  It's almost as though these dresses were all made in the same factory in China and someone simply slapped a different label on them depending on vendor.  But that would be impossible, right?  (I also got a boring white cardigan and black shrug to wear over these because I care not to expose my armpits in a formal setting.) 

Regardless, the impromptu fatty fashion fiesta was not the intended purpose of this post but it illustrates my point nicely.  I have 10,000 things yet to do, thus I have been procrastinating like crazy.  This aversion to finishing my tasks has led me directly to the internet.  Normally I'm a lurker - I read scads of blogs but never comment.  But since commenting is much more pleasant than say, reorganizing my closet or raking up the mountain of defrosted dog poop in the backyard, I've suddenly become prolific.

Because I should strive to be more prolific on my own website, I'm going to give you the long version of the key-losing-neighbor from a couple of days ago.  Here goes:

A bothersome family moved out of the house two doors down last month.  No surprise, I was thrilled to see them go.  They bugged me because they had a very nice, private backyard with lots of lawn furniture, but they preferred to gather up all their friends and family, sit on their front stoop in kitchen chairs, and shout to each other, leading to my never being able to watch TV with the windows open for two summers running.  (FYI, it took them weeks to clear out of their house because there's apparently a rule in this 'hood that you aren't allowed to rent a truck or hire a moving van and there's only so much furniture a 15 year old Chevy Malibu can transport in one trip.)

So, it's a Friday night and Fletch has his friend Hurricane Joel over for cigars and rye and Military TV programming.  After Joel goes, I pour Fletch into bed.  (No one survives a night out with Joel.  NO ONE.)  As I'm closing the curtains, I see two huge men park their big red car in the middle of the street.  I notice they start poking around a couple of the other cars up and down the block, including mine.  They don't actually put their hands on my vehicle, but they keep diving under it.  They're super loud and they've got their headlights shining directly on themselves.  I figure if they're car thieves, they aren't particularly good ones.

I attempt to rally Fletch, but all he does is mumble, "Smokey smokey smokey," into his pillow before passing out again, so it's up to me to deal with the situation.  I'm trying desperately to stop going Gladys Kravitz all over everyone's asses because it would be nice if at least someone in the neighborhood didn't hate me.  In neighborly solidarity, I let the situation play out a little longer.  The guys poke around a while more and then I see the bigger of the two guys open up a Zippo and dive under my car again. 

OK, smile and wave at people on my street in an insincere attempt to be more friendly?  Yes.  Willingly allow arson?  No.  I call the police and they arrive in record time.

The police talk to the two guys for a few minutes and then drive away, leading me to assume they aren't criminals and are neighbors who have lost something.  But what?  Maybe someone dropped a stone out of her ring while shoving a plastic potted tree in the passenger seat?  Possibly a wallet fell out of the pants riding mid-thigh on the gentleman with the bass loud enough to rattle my fillings?  Obviously the missing item was valuable enough to keep up the midnight recovery effort.  However, even if they are my neighbors, they're still strangers and I'm not about to dash out in the dark and volunteer to help.   

The two guys continue to light their lighters and dive under cars.  I watch as they leave them open long enough to get hot, then flick them closed and wave their burned fingers in the air.  Sometimes they pause, dust off their knees, and scratch their heads.  Finally, one of them opens his cell phone and uses the dial light to illuminate the ground under my car. 

This little dance goes on for FOUR HOURS.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

I am flabbergasted at their lack of problem solving skills.  As the night proceeds, I find a million different ways to locate the lost object myself. 

I drive to any one of a dozen all-night grocery stores in the vicinity and buy a flashlight. 

I knock on neighbors' doors, explain what I've lost, and ask to borrow a broom, rake, or shovel to scoop out the contents of what's below the cars.

I decide the missing object is a key, so I call a locksmith because the phone in my hand is more than just a very dim source of light. 

I call a friend to help.

I say, "Fuck it," and come back as soon as it gets light out.

At no point would I use my lighter on a McDonald's cup, only to be shocked at its sudden, violent incandescent, thus singeing off my eyebrows and setting fire to the brim of my hat.  I'd probably also forgive my friend for hitting me in the face in an attempt to douse the flames and would not let the situation devolve into a shove fest.  And were I to engage in these actions, I wouldn't blame my friend for screaming, "Fucking burn next time then!" either.

At this point I go to bed because the show can't possibly get any better.  But I have to sleep in the guest room at the back of the house because of all the I-burnt-my-eyebrows-off noise out front.  Also, Fletch smells like a bachelor party.

The following Monday I'm coming back from the gym and the two guys are on the street again, only this time they're busy moving furniture out of their car and into the old neighbors' house. 

Of course they are.

They call me over to say hello.  They're very friendly despite the fact they've only got one set of eyebrows between them.  We chat for a couple of minutes and I learn about the lost key, but I don't mention my having called the police.  I just smile and nod.  Look at me, what a good neighbor! 

Then one of them tries to sell me a box of meat out of his trunk. 

And I... I... I give up.  I excuse myself abruptly and dash into my house. 

Someday I'll live in a neighborhood where people don't set their hair on fire or try to sell me a trunk full of flank steaks. 

'Til then, I'll keep buying pretty dresses and uncomfortable shoes so I look nice when I get to meet you all and tell you the stories in person.

OK, OK, Uncle

Fine. 

I can admit it. 

I may have been wrong about the jean jacket.

Thinking back to the mid-80's, I loved, loved, loved my trim-fit Levi's jean jacket.  It completed what was my favorite outfit for the longest time - a thick white cotton t-shirt, Italian-restaurant table cloth red-and white checked Esprit shorts (size 8, bitches), a red fringed sash, pristine Keds with squashy white aerobics socks, a red bucket Liz Claiborne purse worn messenger-bag style, and the biggest hair you ever saw.  What made the jacket even better was the big U2 I painted on the back in the EXACT same pattern/color as the band's name on the Unforgettable Fire album.

I miss that jacket.

I miss the smug self-satisfaction of size 8.

(I don't miss the bear-claw bangs, though.)

Anyway, I'm thus opening my mind and heart to the possibility of wearing a jean jacket again and thought I should make that point public.

(Yes, I am procrastinating the real work I need to do - how did you know?)

Besides, how freaking cute would a little tailored denim jacket be with this purse?

No, I don't own this bag. 

(And I never will if I don't stop procrastinating and do my work.)

Lost in Translation

Today's example of a statement about brand loyalty that makes perfect sense in my head but sounds really fucking weird when I say it out loud to the cashier at Kohl's who is ringing up my five boxes of Jockey for Her cotton briefs:

"I've been wearing the exact same underpants for twenty years!"

Thank you and good night!

In Theaters Now!

New from the producers who brought you The Dog Who Wouldn't Poop Outside and The Red Light Runners comes the new film Jesus Christ, When Am I Going to Learn to Measure Width, Depth, AND Length When Buying Furniture, Part Three... now playing! 

(In my bedroom.)

Opinion?

OK, fine. 

It's possible that not every single box of the Zappos order was Fletch's. 

Maybe someone else in this house has been freaking desperate to find a pair wide-calf boots and she knows she has to get them NOW, NOW, NOW or else all the other better-organized girls with muscular calves with snatch up every damn pair and they won't be available again until next year which she found out the hard way last February when she spent six fruitless hours looking for them online and if she doesn't get them this year it will really suck because she has since determined Crocs simply aren't good snow shoes and this is why she ordered a bunch of Zappos boots to try, none of which fit properly except for the pair below which she is on the fence about because she can't determine whether or not they look like stripper shoes.

Please select from the following:

A)  OMG, so cute!

B)  Cute, but will they really go with your twinsets?

C)  Not cute, but better than Crocs.  Dear God, anything is better than Crocs, and sweet Jesus, don't let her discover those Sherpa Crocs.

D)  Yeah, they'll look cute... ON THE POLE.

The person who lives here and is not Fletch thanks you for your support.

* * *

UPDATE:  All right, all right!  I get it.  You hate them.  You REALLY hate them.  As of this moment, I promise they're all boxed up and ready to be sent back so a more deserving dancer/drag queen can wear them in good health.

Let us never speak of this incident again.

(But they were kind of cute with my long black skirt.)

Waiting for Godot... in a Totally Different Store

Today I NEED to continue to plug away on my rapidly-coming-due manuscript. 

However, I WANT to call for a boycott against Nike, Inc. but I'm waiting for their response on whether or not they plan to continue to have dog-killing thugs endorsing their products, MICHAEL VICK.  (In the meantime, Fletch spent last evening with a seam-ripper, removing little embroidered swooshes off all his athletic gear.)  (While our vicious, blood-thirsty, born-to-kill pit bull cowered in the bathroom because it was raining.)

And I WILL get started on neither, instead recounting this scene from twenty years ago that I'd completely forgotten about until I dreamed about it last night.  (BTW, if there's a fourth book in the whole life-of-Jen series, it will be a prequel composed of the longer version of hey-I-was-always-kind-of-an-ass stories like this.)

* * * * * * * * * *

It's late August, 1987.  Everyone I know is back on campus except for me.  The previous semester, I directed my academic efforts towards boys, beers, and VISA, so my university invites me to take a semester or two off with the nebulous suggestion I become less stupid.  My parents' plan for my de-stupidification is more concrete and includes work, and lot of it, should I want to continue to live indoors.  This is why I find myself in the belly of the beast, working retail at the Southtown Mall in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and having the following exchange with a harried-looking mother who enters my store:

Me:  (with the kind of forced cheerfulness our corporate office requires, knowing full well if I'm not polite that I could be fired and if I lose my job on top of being booted out of school, I will never, ever be out of trouble) Hi, welcome to Maurices'!  Can I help you find anything?

Customer:  Yes, I have a hold for Miller.

Me:  Sure!  Let's go get it for you!  (thumbing through the rack behind the counter)  Hmm, I don't see anything for Miller.  Did you hold it today?  We only keep items on the hold rack until the close of business, so if you held it yesterday, it would have been put back into stock.

Customer:  (snaps)  Yes, it was today.  The name is Miller.  M-I-L-L-E-R.  Look again.

Me:  Ooh, gosh, my mistake then!  Let's give this another looksie.  (going through the rack, pulling out every single garment) No, no, no Miller.  But let's see, I've got holds for Helen, for Heidi, for Marcy, and for Joan.  Did you give your first name?  Is one of these yours?

Customer:  No!  (exasperated sigh)  Go look in the back.

Me:  (I'm about to explain THE BACK is a cramped storage area with a mini-fridge and a small picnic table and a bunch of broken floor fixtures.  There's a wee cork board with this week's schedule posted to it, and if we're really, really lucky, the tiny, dank employee bathroom isn't too disgusting to use.  We don't put holds back here because it's tiny and gross.  And, more importantly, this is most certainly NOT where we hide all the good items that you only get to see after you specifically request we retrieve them from here.)  (And yet when I take in the customer's knitted brows and and lips pursed so hard her bright red lipstick is bleeding into all tiny wrinkles around her mouth, I think better of it.)  OK!  Be right out.  (I freshen up my lipgloss in the filthy mirror, taking my time so the customer assumes I'm looking.)

Me:  (returning)  Mrs. Miller, I'm so, so sorry!  It's not back there.  Somehow your item must have been returned to stock.  If you can tell me what it looks like, I'll find it for you immediately. 

Customer:  (slams hand on counter) Damn it, why are all you people all so incompetent?

Me:  (pauses, channeling my seething rage into something resembling polite conversation) So, um, were they a pair of jeans then?  Acid washed, perhaps?

Customer:  No!  It was a sweater!  It was a goddamned yellow argyle sweater with pink and green diamonds!  And my daughter is going have a fit you if you lost it and she can't wear it on the first day of school!

Me:  (MUST KILL)  (WITH KINDNESS)  (also, am completely sure if we HAD a yellow argyle sweater, I would already own it)  Ma'am, I think you're talking about the sweater at Ups 'N Downs across the hall.  Which is a totally different store from Maurices'.

Customer:  Show me because I am not leaving without this sweater.

Me:  (shrugging as I pass the other Maurices' employees in their mini-skirts and maxi-bangs while Customer and I exit, cross the courtyard, and enter Ups 'N Downs)  OK, then, here we are.  In this place which is a different store.

Customer:  (grabbing the sweater off a display where half a dozen of them are folded)  A-ha!  I told you you put them back!  Is retail really that difficult?  I don't know what is wrong with you people. 

Me:  (smiling with gritted teeth)  My guess is that we work in a different store.  See, that's why the music and clothing are different here and it's also why we went through that big hallway past the landscaping and the Things Remembered kiosk.

Customer:  (thrusting the sweater and her credit card at me)  Here, ring me up.  You've wasted enough of my time.

Me:  Sure!  Let me just find a clerk who works here in this store which is different from the store I work in.  (spotting an employee I know, grinning broadly)  Hey, Kendra?  Can you ring this up?  I can't, what with my not working here because this is a different store and all.

Kendra:  (punching buttons on the cash register and then handing over a slip)  Here you are Mrs. Miller, please sign here.  OK!  (hands over her package)  Thank you for shopping at Ups 'N Downs.

Me:  And at Maurices!  Which is a different store!  (customer exits, delighted with her purchase)

Kendra:  What the hell was that?

Me:  That was tangible proof of why I need to get my ass back into college.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hey!  While I was writing this entry, I got an email back from Nike:

There is no change in the status of the agreement between Nike and football player Michael Vick. Nike will continue to monitor the situation, but has nothing further to say at this time.

We appreciate that you took the time to contact us and your feedback will be passed along to the proper department.

Sincerely,

Nike

Oh, Nike... 

It is SO FUCKING ON.

Are you disgusted they've yet to part ties with Michael Vick?  Then please let them know!

One Bowerman Drive
Beaverton, OR 97005-6453
Phone: 1-800-344-6453

or

NIKE, Inc.
USA Consumer Services
PO Box 4027
Beaverton, OR 97076-4027

or

Click here for the email form you can use to tell Nike you don't buy products from corporations who ipso facto endorse dog fighting. 

Please cut, paste and repost this information to spread the word.

"Fuck you, Nike for making my mumma write a completely schizophrenic blog.  Also, your shoes don't even taste good."

It's Here!

My IKEA bed has arrived! 

In five small boxes! 

Which could have easily fit in our SUV! 

Without even keeping the back gate open!

Thus eliminating the almost $200 in delivery fees, weeks of waiting, and a plethora of blood-pressure raising phone calls!

I wish I could quit you, IKEA.

(Shameful.)

And I'm Not Putting My Cart Back, Either

Dear Whole Foods,   

Let's make a deal - when you stop charging $7.99/pound for Rainer cherries, I'll start bagging my own stuff when you're short-staffed.   

Until then, please expect more arm-crossed, key-jangling, toe-tapping while I wait for your better-educated-than-me cashier to first ring up and then package my overpriced fruit in plastic bags (now with 25% more earth-raping!) 

Many thanks,   

Jen