Sara and I have forged a connection. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, sometimes it can become the love of a lifetime. Evidence #1: Today after only one brief errand in the ConsumerMecca that is Slobberdale we tandemly experience the instinct to adjourn to a certain trendy restaurant chain for burgers (hint – if you visit their site make sure your sound is turned on while you browse so you can be driven to a murderous rage in mere minutes). Then we both egg each other on to have a drink with lunch. And you know, we weren’t dipping our “Sharable-Starter” Towering Onion Ringsâ„¢ in that tangy Campfire sauce – we were dippin’ ’em. ‘Cause the double-R is casual like that.
On our next mission I nonchalantly mention my desire to buy new makeup (I am proud to say I have exactly four pieces of makeup – not including lip gloss, and if you’re a woman you totally understand that lip gloss doesn’t count) and it turns out my dear partner in gratuitous-shopping-crime was thinking along the same lines but had been afraid to drag me along to the mall. Out of the muggy outdoorsies we step into the frigidly air conditioned Macy’s where I experience a brief panic that we will not find the crazy cosmetics archipelago swarming with creepy salesclerks eyeing our flaky t-zones like so many sharks. Sara says, “Do you smell science? Look for a lab coat!” Moments later we are being dabbed and daubed by a cute li’l mannequin-like female with a thin veneer of spackle on her face and crisp, white smock (as if to say, “You are in excellent hands with my dermatalogical know-how and skin-disease remedies!”). She’s friendly though: “Does your skin normally have shades of pink?” and I’m thinking, “No, that was my lunchtime margarita, bitch!”. We purchase our overpriced liniments and powders encased in shiny silver futuristic vials; Sara scores us some samples, and we move on.
The rest of the trip spirals down into “window shopping” that borders dangerously on “overspending”; the fondling of sweatshop goods in babyGap, the trying on of low-rise jeans tight on the ass and insulting to the hips; a foray for espresso. Then it’s back to our homes and children, having narrowly escaped blowing next week’s paycheck on tiny cargo pants and tennis shoes.
Oh and yeah – we talked about our moms the whole time, too. We’re such fucken double-X chromosomes.