Moe

My interview, as I’d mentioned, was yesterday afternoon. I was quite worried about it and, as anyone is wont to do, I was quite keen on making a dead good impression. I needed a new outfit though, for, as I’d mentioned previous, my fancy-pants wardrobe is, to say the very least, somewhat lacking.

It was while I was pondering this that I had a stroke of sheer and oh-so-undeniable genius.

Go to the wilds of Forest Avenue, Babs!! The plaza!! The cheapo $10 or less clothing store!! I’ve seen the *spit* plus size clothing signs there!! Hurrah!!

This, I was sure, would be my salvation. A plan that could NOT go wrong. For even if they only had shit (yet proper-ish looking) clothes that would fall apart after three weeks or so, that would be enough. Because I’d go to the interview dressed smartly, they would hire me, and I’d be able to start stocking up on DECENT and well-made clothes once the paychecks started rolling in. A foolproof plan, surely.

And, before I go on, let me say that when I toddled along to said shops I was not exactly in the best of moods (read: today is, oh, say a mere two weeks past a Certain Event. A Certain Event which usually sees your fearless heroine locked in her room crying her eyes out and the only time she emerges from said room is while hunting for Hersheys Special Dark in the kitchen. And we ALL know what this means. I’m simply far too much of a fucking lady to say it. Nor will we speak of the fucking death threat I shall soon bestow upon the Chick Quack who has DARED to contradict things I’ve said, because he can’t fucking count properly. And I can. But we shall talk about this another time. Ahem).

So, yes!! Babs!! Bad mood!! Shopping!! And, Ma had come along, too. Which could be good or bad depending on whether or not your fearless heroine goes into ‘ultra-mega-bitch’ mode or ’someone please get a knife and stab me repeatedly until I die’ mode.

The first catastrophic mistake I made was wandering into Payless Shoes to see if they’d caught up with their sister stores Down South and started stockpiling a Gunboat Section. I wandered in and started looking around for the size signs. Payless can kind of be strange at times, you’ll see a sign for womens 9s, turn the corner, and then find yourself confronted with mens construction boots instead. Or Elmo sneakers. It’s kind of hit or miss. One must explore the vast interior for AGES in order to find what one wants. And I am forced to admit that I was rather counting on an entire section of Gunboats after the bliss that was rack after rack of 13s Down South. A salesman, who’d noticed me wandering about amidst the confusion that is their signage set-up, asked if I needed any help. I was in no mood to wander about half-assedly, nor was I in the mood to play the ‘let’s shock the shoe elves’ game that I normally play. I just wanted to know if they had the aforementioned 13s for future reference.

Babs: I was wondering, have you all started stocking size 13s??

Salesman (shocked): Womens 13s??

Babs: Um. Yea.

Salesman: Wow. Really?? 13s??

Babs: Yes. 13s. Really. I was Down South and they’ve started selling 13s by the dozens in their Payless.

Salesman (still shocked): Wow. WOW. 13s??

Babs: Yep. Real live 13s.

Salesman: Wow. Um. We don’t carry them here, but our stores in Brooklyn might have a bigger selection.

Babs: Righto. Thanks.

Needless to say, all the ‘wows’ coupled with the word ‘Brooklyn’, did nothing to make my mood better.

Harumph.

Doesn’t matter. I shall have better luck in the store next door!! The shit clothes shop!! Ma finds a rack chock full of dress-y type shirts. For $6!!

Ma: Babs, you know, you might be able to get three or so of these at this price and that will set you up until your paychecks start rolling in.

Babs: You know you’re right. Hey, look!! Fancy-pants pants for $12!!

I grab all of said items and triumphantly head back for the fitting room. A fitting room which left me highly vexed. Firstly, the words ‘fitting room’ meant precisely that: a room. No doors, no sectioned off partitions, nary a curtain to hide a bashful soul and their thunderous thighs or hideously scarred belly. A big room where anyone and anyone can walk in and try on things (well, not any fellas, obviously). I did not handle this sort of arrangment well in 1987 in gym class. And I do not handle this sort of arrangment any better today. I do not want other women seeing my blurbles, blobbles, and, in general, my unclothed rotundicity in all its cringe-worthy hideousness.

Thankfully the store is fairly empty and no one comes back there while I do my damndest to quickly wrestle into the shirts. Which are ALL marked my size. And yet, in spite of this, I cannot get the buttons to reach an amicable accord with the buttonholes in order to safeguard the girls (read: chest region) from all of mankind.

Now let me assure you, when I say ‘my size’ I mean a size ABOVE what I probably SHOULD wear. This is because I am a paranoid numpty and afraid of the inevitable blurbles that can be seen in spite of wearing said clothing (read: was called rolls-a-belly in HS and, though it’s a slight misnomer, have been worried ever since). So I always wear a size above. And I have ALWAYS worn this size. Partly for the camouflage aspect, but, also, because the smaller the sizes go, the shorter the fucking arm length becomes. I can’t BEGIN to tell you how often I go to try on, say, a winter coat and it LOOKS smashing. However, the MOMENT I extend my arm the sleeve shoots up past my elbow. Such is the curse of having ape arms. And, when coupled with the fact that I STILL weigh less NOW than I did in high school (though more than I weighed in Chicago owing to the moving back to this fucking island weight factor), these sizes should boody well fit. And they fucking don’t. Which, after all the ‘wows’ in the shoe shop, and the fact that I’m really fucking cranky, is catapulting me beyond the realm of ’sane woman’ and into the mighty kingdom of ’she who is a psychopath and even Colin Firth showing up at her door would not bring her out of her funk’

Fine. The shirts are no-fucking-go. I glance at the pants. They’re quite nice for a $12 special. Black with a boot leg cut, which makes the gams look skinnier. Hurrah!! I pop them off the hanger and look at them so as to decide whether I will need a simple tug to get them up over the hips or three tractors and a hoist crane. They are cut SO fucking low that I KNOW my ass would be half hanging out of them. I don’t want my ass to be half-hanging out of my pants, and, dare I say, the general public does not want this either. I prefer to leave the ass-hanging out phenomenon to my brothers. Who, incidentally, have no fucking asses to begin with, the bastards. Also, I can tell just by looking at said pants that there is no WAY these are the size they say they are. I have the same problem with the 50,000 other pairs in said store.

I march out of the fitting room, more vexed than ever, and Ma says ‘Oh come on, maybe the store next door will have them’ I reply with something along the lines of ‘I no longer fucking care and hope I get shot. NOW’

Next store is practically the same as the first. And most of the fat girl crap is all the Mama Cass-esque stuff that makes you look like a 56 year old couch that your grandmother just couldn’t throw out so she left in the basement instead. I do not want to break out into ‘California Dreaming’ at the drop of a hat. Nor do I wish to resemble a sofa/loveseat combo. I stomp out, closely followed by Ma who is being optimistic saying ‘Oog!! Look at this store here, we’ve never been in here before!!’ I want to shoot her. No one should be this fucking optimistic. It’s a fucking illness, I tell you.

If she so much as DARES to tell me the glass if half full I shall place said glass where the sun doesn’t shine.

Next store, same problem. I try on the hideous Mama Cass-esque clothing and, in a low voice, start singing ‘All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray (and the sky is graaaaaaay)’ My mood is darkening ever faster. We leave said store and I duck into the Woolworth-esque shop as I’d also wanted to pick up some socks. Half the store is empty. Part of the empty includes the socks I want to get. This is because I failed to see the sign that read ‘closing down in 15 days’ I leave, sockless, and ready to scream because, Hello!! Just WHY did I bother to go out at fucking all??

All that’s left in the plaza for me now is the *proper* fat chick shop. Which carries THE most hideous clothes on the face of the planet. EFL keeps trying to convince me how wonderful it is and how they have EVERYTHING. And stylish, too!!

Let me tell you something, fair reader, this store is only stylish if your name is Ida, you like elastic, and you’re going to St Roch’s for fucking bingo night. Not only is it not stylish, but it carries with it the same problem as all the OTHER *proper* fat chick shops. It’s too fucking expensive. Because, as we ALL know, the extra three yards of fabric justifies jacking up the price another thirty fucking dollars. I can’t whinge, though, for it’s my own fault for being a cow.

I head for the clearance rack. There’s precious little to choose from but I need SOMETHING to wear for the interview. I’ve given up on finding the dress-y type pants entirely because they’re all over $40 and the ones that AREN’T over $40 are $30 and fucking elastic. In a word: Idontfuckingthinkso. I don’t need elastic. I don’t do elastic. Never have, never will.

I find ONE shirt within my price range. It is a fucking horror story. I can wear it with the nice jeans, though. Or maybe the black capris (the only decent dress-y type pants I own). I don’t really want to wear the fucking capris because A) I look like an assclown in them B) it’s going to be like 50º and C) I’d have to wear sandals with them which I don’t fancy fucking wearing owing to blisterage. I try it on, march out to the counter in THE bitchiest of manners (I’m trying to control this but it is really fucking hard). Ma is chatting with the salesgirl.

Babs: *lobs shirt on counter*

Ma: Looked good then??

Babs: Are you fucking kidding me?? I look like an asshole in this. It’s BEYOND hideous.

Ma: Oh it’s not that bad. You worry too much.

Babs: It makes me look like a fucking big screen TV with the vertical hold all fucked up!!

I walked out, bag in hand, and pulled my sunglasses down over my eyes so no one could see my starting to well up, like a fucking simpering girly-girl idiot in all my hormonal glory.

I was forced to accept the fact that I would be going to the interview looking like a 1971 RCA that needed to go to the repair shop.

{to be continued}