Unrelenting Torture

Last night Jessica and I had a lovely trip out to the Tyler Mall.

"Hey, do you want to go to Ruby's and then do a little shopping?" Thus were spoken the words that ended my life.

We spent around 25 minutes in Macy's while Jessica tried on several pairs of shoes, but seemed unable to get the attention of the addled employees. At least one of the other patrons repeatedly talked to us, which really breaks my imaginary antisocial bubble. "Isn't shopping for shoes fun?", said the fellow customer.

After that fruitless shopping search, we got to go into Express and Ann Taylor Loft (when I type those, my penis shrivels up a little, embarrassed that I can remember the names). "Wait," I thought to myself, "do those places have shoes?" Indeed, no. This was shopping for yet another sweater. In September. For a wedding in Newbury Park. In September. The dog days of summer.

"It might be cold inside."

After more useless rack wrangling, unable to find a sweater to her liking (who knew that there was a sweater Jessica didn't want to own?): "ok, let's go to Nordstrom."

Oops, we overshot Nordstrom and ended up in the Body Shop. She "needed" some stuff from there, naturally. The air in The Body Shop stings the nostrils with its citrusy, waxy, somewhat ass-smelling odor. After selecting some useless makeup type thing, she had to buy yet another type of balm in order to get some kind of "points" on her "card."

Then we get to Nordstom. The friendly guy got her, and I'm estimating here, a MILLION pairs of shoes. Each was unsatisfactory. Toes crushed, too big, too pointy.

My favorite line: "hmmm, these are really more like trouser shoes."

I reckon that the salesman had a punching bag in the back that he hit everytime he had to go back again.