My husband Scott is smarter than he looks.
I mean that as a compliment, honey.
He starts his new job tomorrow morning, and was brilliant enough to “forget” to pack most of his dress clothes in the three suitcases we were able to bring with us on the plane.
Our belongings have yet to arrive in Minnesota (despite an estimated delivery of last week…I’m growing slightly concerned), which means all of Scott’s work clothes are carefully tucked away in this bad boy.
Naturally, a trip to Nordstrom was in order, so that Scott didn’t have to show up to work naked. Or worse, wearing only underwear and a bow tie.
The man is genius. Next time we move, I’ll have to “forget” to pack my handbags, shoes and Michael Kors watch.
I actually tried to hide a few items under the bed and claim to have mistakenly placed them in the moving truck. Unfortunately, when Jolie emerged from my secret hiding spot donning a Tiffany’s necklace, my cover was blown.
It takes a lot for me to be angry at the dog, but this just about did it.
Until I realized that she had become the real-life version of Bruiser Woods, at which point I was just proud.
Now we just need to train her to do the “bend and snap”.
A few hours later, we found ourselves at the only place in the world that actually makes me dislike shopping.
Er…not that I’ve ever tried eating nothing but cupcakes for a month. No, that would be silly, disgusting, and something I would never actually admit to on the internet.
Although if I ever had conducted such an experiment, It would have been nice if Cupcake Royale had offered a punch card rewards system for frequent customers. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Navigating the Mall of America on a Saturday is easily more difficult and stress inducing than dredging along I-5 during Seattle rush hour. And that’s not even taking into account the slow-motion rat maze also known as the MOA parking lot. Things got a little hairy when I grew impatient and reached over Scott’s lap to honk the horn for approximately 8 solid seconds.
I remembered that I now live in the Midwest, where people are nice and don’t honk their horns in parking lots about eight seconds too late.
At this point, the car full of high school kids at whom my parking lot rage was directed towards politely rolled down their window and explained to us that they had worked out a verbal agreement with the owners of the minivan whose parking spot we had been patiently waiting for before they cut us off.
Apologies for the run-on sentence. It’s a symptom of my crankiness.
And of course the teeny-boppers had worked out an agreement. I suppose that’s the way things work here in friendly-mc-nice-people-ville.
Scott was able to draw on his cordial Nebraska roots and happily call out “That’s OK! Sorry to bother you!” while smiling and waving. He quickly rolled up the window just before I screamed out “We were here first, MALL RATS!”
Luckily, as soon as we maneuvered around them, we landed a parking spot in the very first row. Before Team High School Musical had even secured the spot they had bartered for. Suckers.
Finally, we arrived at the Mall of America Nordstrom, which just may rival the Flagship store in Seattle. At this point I was starting to feel better.
Two hours, and a bajillion dollars later, Scott emerged with a new work wardrobe.
A wardrobe which consists of one pair of shoes, one pair of slacks, some J. Brand jeans and a Hugo Boss dress shirt.
For a bajillion dollars.
At this point I started to feel worse.
There was one point in the dressing room where Scott tried on an outfit, while actually uttering the phrase “What makes this look work is the contrast.”
So basically, I’m married to the straight version of Clinton Kelly.
The only difference is that Clinton Kelly can actually afford to drop a bajillion dollars on four pieces of clothing.
I’m trying to think of this as an investment. And a reward for Scott, who finally agreed to shave off the “unemployment beard”.
I never thought I’d say this…but perhaps it’s a good thing we’ll be living 143 miles from Nordstrom.
We’ll at least be able to save up money to afford some real therapy.
You know, to help us recover from the trauma that was this weekend’s, anything-but-soothing retail therapy.
Mall of America, this blog post is my official 8-second honk at you. Take that.
Now that that’s out of the way, we’ll see you next month at the Jessica Simpson trunk show event.
What? It’s not real therapy unless you spend a lot of money and don’t actually learn anything.