DJ Mrs White In The Library With The Lead Pipe (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} djmrswhite) wrote,@ 2006-09-10 20:36:00 |
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The 44DD Disaster, Averted, Plus Employee of The Year
We shop.
We go to Northpark because it was always my favorite mall, even though I spent time in the early 80s as an employee at Galleria. Unfortunately I no longer recognize Northpark mall. In my heart it looks the same as it did when they had a Lubys and a Woolworth's in the place and they filmed "True Stories" there, but now it's a giant sprawling thing full of fancy-ass stores.
Not that I have anything against fancy-ass stores aside from A&F and Hollister, both pure evil. I decide we're going to Neiman-Marcus, home of the only decent boxer shorts known to manhood. They are full cut, they have a fabric-lined waistband. They USED to go up to waist size 44. But 42 still works on me. So that's what I buy. And lately, the fucking Beverly Hills outpost hasn't even had any 42 in stock. I knew that Texas, my Texas, however, would have plenty of sizes for its generally rotunder population. And I was right. I buy three pair, all they have on the floor. Then we roll on up to ladies sleepwear because my sister-in-law has informed me that my mother needs some new nightshirts.
When we get up to women's sleepwear, though, she points immediately to the millions of bras hanging in one corner and says, "Muhmuhmuhmuhmuhmuh."
"You need bras?"
"Muhmuhmuh."
"Uh... you need Jill [my sister in law] for this. I don't know shit about bras."
I get the "stop swearing" look for this. Just then the Bra Angel of North Texas descends on us from above. Her name is Darla Fulp and she is the greatest Neiman-Marcus employee that has ever lived. Here's why: She said, "I would love to help her. Leave it to me." She reaches down into the back of my mother's blouse, checks the size, notices the gouging and redness on my mother's back and says, "First of all this thing needs to come off and y'all need to burn it because it's too small for her and it's hurting her." Then she grabs a bunch of sizes and styles off the giant-boob rack [44 DD or something crazy like that] and we roll her into the dressing room. I say, "You have to ask very specific yes or no questions because she's had a stroke and understands everything you say but can't speak."
"No problem," says Darla. I leave them to figure it all out and go off to look at nightshirts. They can't be complicated pajamas with buttons, they can't be pants, they can't have scratchy lacy tops and bottoms. They can't be special needs silk or--like the insanely soft cashmere pajamas I saw and would have not thought twice about giving her as a gift back in the walking and talking days--need to hauled to the dry cleaners, making my sister-in-law's life even more complicated than it already is, since she's the one who does all the laundry.
I return 20 minutes later to the bra-trying-on-zone and knock to see if everything's alright. They invite me in. It ain't like I haven't seen every square inch of my mother's 63 year old real estate by now anyway. I changed her diaper back before she was as functional as she is now. I've wiped vomit off her boobs. I've been where no son wants to go once he's left the area on the day of his own birth. Nothing shocks or embarrasses me anymore. Breasts and vaginas are like thumbs and elbows. They're simply parts that need regular cleaning and maintenance.
My mother is sitting in her new bra, beaming with pleasure. "She had the wrong size," says Darla, and that's why she was in pain. "Buy her these three and that should be a good start. And I know you think this is all about my commission but it's not. I have rich women come into this store every day spending $200-$300 on bras and it means nothing to me. It actually makes my heart feel good about my job when I'm able to help women who really need it. You coming into my department just made my whole day."
We leave the bras on the counter and go look for nightshirts. There's a beautiful, simple pink cotton one from Hanro, the good stuff, that she likes until she sees the price tag. Then puts it away. I pull it back off the rack. "Look at this one Ma. It's soft, it's pretty, it's cut big and comfortably, it's from a really good maker and it'll last a long time." She shake her head no. It IS expensive, to which I respond, "Yeah it's expensive. And who cares? You deserve it. You deserve this nice thing that'll make your life nicer. I'm buying it for you."
Then she started crying.
I had to let Darla leave be for a minute while I explained a few things. I said, "It's okay for you to have nice things. It's okay if you spill food on the nice things and puke on the nice things too. So what?"
Just then, around the corner, comes Darla holding a different night shirt of heavier cotton jersey, an embroidered v-neck and an a-line cut to accomdate any size of a growing ass. In other words, perfect. Oscar De La Renta. My mother went, "oooh" and reached out to touch it. I grabbed the price tag to hide it from her because by this point i didn't care if it were three times as much ss the Hanro, I was going to buy it. She wrestled the tag from me and --que milagro--it was 25 dollars less than the Hanro. Still pricey but not AS expensive ss the other one. I said, "We're getting this one. I can see it on your face that you love this one, it's going to fit you perfectly, you're going to be the best dressed woman in that nursing home and you deserve it. I'm buying it. She allowed the transaction to take place.
So check it out ladies of North Texas who need intimate apparel. Go to Neiman-Marcus at Northpark Mall and ask for the incredible and indcredibly helpful Darla Fulp by name. She will steer you right and treat you like you're a member of her own family. I'm sending her a Christmas card and that's no lie.
We shop.
We go to Northpark because it was always my favorite mall, even though I spent time in the early 80s as an employee at Galleria. Unfortunately I no longer recognize Northpark mall. In my heart it looks the same as it did when they had a Lubys and a Woolworth's in the place and they filmed "True Stories" there, but now it's a giant sprawling thing full of fancy-ass stores.
Not that I have anything against fancy-ass stores aside from A&F and Hollister, both pure evil. I decide we're going to Neiman-Marcus, home of the only decent boxer shorts known to manhood. They are full cut, they have a fabric-lined waistband. They USED to go up to waist size 44. But 42 still works on me. So that's what I buy. And lately, the fucking Beverly Hills outpost hasn't even had any 42 in stock. I knew that Texas, my Texas, however, would have plenty of sizes for its generally rotunder population. And I was right. I buy three pair, all they have on the floor. Then we roll on up to ladies sleepwear because my sister-in-law has informed me that my mother needs some new nightshirts.
When we get up to women's sleepwear, though, she points immediately to the millions of bras hanging in one corner and says, "Muhmuhmuhmuhmuhmuh."
"You need bras?"
"Muhmuhmuh."
"Uh... you need Jill [my sister in law] for this. I don't know shit about bras."
I get the "stop swearing" look for this. Just then the Bra Angel of North Texas descends on us from above. Her name is Darla Fulp and she is the greatest Neiman-Marcus employee that has ever lived. Here's why: She said, "I would love to help her. Leave it to me." She reaches down into the back of my mother's blouse, checks the size, notices the gouging and redness on my mother's back and says, "First of all this thing needs to come off and y'all need to burn it because it's too small for her and it's hurting her." Then she grabs a bunch of sizes and styles off the giant-boob rack [44 DD or something crazy like that] and we roll her into the dressing room. I say, "You have to ask very specific yes or no questions because she's had a stroke and understands everything you say but can't speak."
"No problem," says Darla. I leave them to figure it all out and go off to look at nightshirts. They can't be complicated pajamas with buttons, they can't be pants, they can't have scratchy lacy tops and bottoms. They can't be special needs silk or--like the insanely soft cashmere pajamas I saw and would have not thought twice about giving her as a gift back in the walking and talking days--need to hauled to the dry cleaners, making my sister-in-law's life even more complicated than it already is, since she's the one who does all the laundry.
I return 20 minutes later to the bra-trying-on-zone and knock to see if everything's alright. They invite me in. It ain't like I haven't seen every square inch of my mother's 63 year old real estate by now anyway. I changed her diaper back before she was as functional as she is now. I've wiped vomit off her boobs. I've been where no son wants to go once he's left the area on the day of his own birth. Nothing shocks or embarrasses me anymore. Breasts and vaginas are like thumbs and elbows. They're simply parts that need regular cleaning and maintenance.
My mother is sitting in her new bra, beaming with pleasure. "She had the wrong size," says Darla, and that's why she was in pain. "Buy her these three and that should be a good start. And I know you think this is all about my commission but it's not. I have rich women come into this store every day spending $200-$300 on bras and it means nothing to me. It actually makes my heart feel good about my job when I'm able to help women who really need it. You coming into my department just made my whole day."
We leave the bras on the counter and go look for nightshirts. There's a beautiful, simple pink cotton one from Hanro, the good stuff, that she likes until she sees the price tag. Then puts it away. I pull it back off the rack. "Look at this one Ma. It's soft, it's pretty, it's cut big and comfortably, it's from a really good maker and it'll last a long time." She shake her head no. It IS expensive, to which I respond, "Yeah it's expensive. And who cares? You deserve it. You deserve this nice thing that'll make your life nicer. I'm buying it for you."
Then she started crying.
I had to let Darla leave be for a minute while I explained a few things. I said, "It's okay for you to have nice things. It's okay if you spill food on the nice things and puke on the nice things too. So what?"
Just then, around the corner, comes Darla holding a different night shirt of heavier cotton jersey, an embroidered v-neck and an a-line cut to accomdate any size of a growing ass. In other words, perfect. Oscar De La Renta. My mother went, "oooh" and reached out to touch it. I grabbed the price tag to hide it from her because by this point i didn't care if it were three times as much ss the Hanro, I was going to buy it. She wrestled the tag from me and --que milagro--it was 25 dollars less than the Hanro. Still pricey but not AS expensive ss the other one. I said, "We're getting this one. I can see it on your face that you love this one, it's going to fit you perfectly, you're going to be the best dressed woman in that nursing home and you deserve it. I'm buying it. She allowed the transaction to take place.
So check it out ladies of North Texas who need intimate apparel. Go to Neiman-Marcus at Northpark Mall and ask for the incredible and indcredibly helpful Darla Fulp by name. She will steer you right and treat you like you're a member of her own family. I'm sending her a Christmas card and that's no lie.
