The Mall Used to be My Happy Place

The mall used to be my happy place. Not any more.

Walking down the center of our local mall is like running the gauntlet. A lovely young woman offers me a free sample of lotion. But I don’t want any lotion. When I politely decline, she wants to know if she can ask me a question.  Please, can I just shop in peace? NO, you cannot ask me a question.  If I don’t want your free sample, what in the name of good judgment makes you think I will answer a question?!

Then, when I finally make it safely inside a department store, a woman rushes at me with a perfume sample. I have to yell “No!” before she aims the spray at my face.  I’m about ready to throw a facemask in my purse before heading to the store.

And don’t get me started on the wave of young male sales clerks. This may be sexist but I simply don’t want my clothes brought to me by some androgynous metrosexual who looks like he’s barely out of training pants and has a waist smaller than mine. 

And is it just me or are the sales folks getting more aggressive? Today I tried on a few items at a store that shall remain nameless (three letters, all caps). I politely brought my items to the front and let the gal at the register know that they didn’t work out. She leans over the counter and says, “Why?” Uh….well, because I’m just killing time, because I wanted to see if skipping the pint of ice cream last night means I can fit into a smaller size, because I had no intention of buying anything and because if I show up at home with any bags my husband will kill me. That’s why. Any more stupid questions?!

The worst is when I go shopping with my teenager. Are they purposefully trying to drive anyone over the age of 25 out of those stores that cater to teens and young adults? Because between the deafening music and the overwhelming scent of cologne and perfume, I’m ready to collapse by the time we leave. I think there’s a method to their madness. I’ll shell out $75 for a pair of jeans just to get the heck out of the store. I know I’m getting old because I keep saying things like, “How can anyone hear themselves think with this blasted racket playing? And don’t you have a headache from all this stinking cologne?”

I think this is why online shopping has become attractive to me. You can block those obnoxious pop-up ads on your computer.  I wish I could do the same when I shop at the mall.

Why can’t I be accosted by the folks at Godiva? If they offer me a free chocolate dipped strawberry, they can ask me all the questions they want.

Hey Look! Pajamajeans

A friend of mine just passed along a fabulous fashion tip I want to share with all of you. Pajamajeans. Really. Jeans that look like, well, jeans but feel like pajamas.  If my male readers are disappointed, don’t worry. They come in eight sizes and go all the way up to a  3XL so I’m sure there’s a size in there for everyone. Oddly, all sizes come in a 31” inseam.

There are no pesky zippers or buttons—great for avoiding that whole muffin top syndrome. Not that I would know anything about that. The ad says they have European styling. Does that mean the wearer will look like a gorgeous French mademoiselle or an Italian bombshell in them?  If that's the case, then it is $39.95 well spent.

You may scoff but do you know what these are perfect for? FREELANCE WRITERS. Seriously, we’re always looking for something a little more upscale than yoga pants but not quite as confining as jeans.  

I can just picture it now. “Mom, those jeans look like pajamas. Hey, didn’t you sleep in them last night?” I respond, “Honey, Mommy is a FREELANCE WRITER. We dress for comfort. A FREELANCE WRITER cannot wear constrictive clothing when she is attempting to string words together.  And no, these are not pajamas. They are jeans.”

The ad claims they are stylish, sexy, soft and comfortable. The last time I checked, stylish and sexy did not belong in the same category with soft and comfortable. Are we going to see these in the Victoria’s Secret catalog? I think not.

I swear the  girl on the ad looks like Kim Kardashian. I’m going to go out on a limb here, but I’m thinking that the gals who buy pajamajeans aren’t exactly shopping in the same clothing store as Ms. Kardashian.  

Obviously, I’ve been a little skeptical. But check this out. To sweeten the deal, they are offering a FREE grey, crewneck t-shirt with every order. I’m sold. Because that’s not something you can find just anywhere. 

Lincoln

If John Grogan’s Labrador Marley was the World’s Worst Dog, then our Bullmastiff Lincoln was arguably the World’ Best Dog.

As a breed, Bullmastiffs are generally considered among the most agreeable, loving, obedient and family-oriented dogs, and Lincoln has been no exception. On the down side, they don’t live very long. If the saying “Only the good die young is true,” then it certainly applies to this breed. We lost our first Bullmastiff, Molson, to cancer at age 5 and sadly, we lost Lincoln yesterday to cancer also at age 5.

To understand Lincoln, one must understand where he and his canine ancestors come from. Originally called “The Gamekeeper’s Friend,” Bullmastiffs were bred from English Bulldogs and English Mastiffs. They roamed the grounds of the large English estates helping the gamekeepers keep out poachers. They are bred to be silent so as not alert intruders to their presence. But when they do confront an intruder, they knock them to the ground and gently wrap their jaws around the offender’s throat. They don’t bite—they don’t have to. Their drooling presence is enough to scare a would-be poacher straight.

While Lincoln never had to practice the talents of his forbearers, he always placed his 170-pound body between us and whoever came to our door. We may not live on an English estate but we were his people, and he took seriously his role to protect us.  I loved that feeling, and I will miss it terribly.

Lincoln was easy to train and loved to please. His only walk on the wild side was one summer when he developed a taste for rodents. As our vet delicately put it when we enquired about Lincoln’s stomach troubles, “Somewhere out there is a bereaved family of rodents.” Luckily, he outgrew that phase. We have a noticeable absence of squirrels and other critters in our yard, though.

It’s never easy to watch your pet die and although I confess I’m not really a dog person, it has been gut wrenching to watch our gentle giant struggle simply to walk outside. Bone cancer is aggressive and painful but Lincoln has borne it all bravely with the grace and dignity characteristic of his breeding. Never once did he utter as much as a whimper until the very end and we have often wondered if his stoic and longsuffering nature kept him from expressing pain much earlier.

Some folks believe dogs go to heaven. I’m not sure but I’ll err on the side of believing that Lincoln is sitting quietly beside the pearly gates, a stately and dignified protector, making sure no bad guys get in.