Quick re-cap: Walt’s wife is out of town, and Walt has to fend for himself. Last night’s dinner was a disaster, so this evening he eats out and does some chores.
I think by now the aluminum burrs have passed through my system from the manged lid that fell in my food. Not wanting to go through that trauma again, nor wanting to wash a fork (we’re out), I thought I’d grab the camera and some friends and have dinner out. What could be easier?
Alan and Loralie swung by after work, having agreed to help me out with some chores. It seems that within the last two days, my T-Mobile SideKick has decided not to read its internal memory card. I get this SIM NOT READY message, which disables all incoming and outgoing calls, prevents text messaging, and often causes the phone to reboot. Oddly enough, I can still send and receive email.
The last time this happened, I was on hold for four days with customer service, who simply told me to take the phone into a T-Mobile store, and they’d replace the SIM card for free. I did that last time, and it worked. So this time I thought I’d make things easy on myself and return to the same store.
As I’m trying to describe the problem, the sales clerk is trying to get me to spend $200+ on a newer phone. Problem is, the two new features it has, a head set and a camera are two features I just don’t need. Additionally, I can also “upgrade” my plan, and pay $80 per phone per month, instead of $40, for an additional 500 minutes, which I never use anyhow.
While I’m trying to convince the sales person this is not an economically sound idea, he’s twiddling with my phone. He pops the SIM card out, blows on it, and puts in back in. Ha the fool! I know technology, and that kind of wishful thinking is why you’re in retail, and I’m, well, where ever I am.
He hands me back the phone, and as I go to laugh in his face, the phone is working perfectly. Oh, ha ha.
Convinced the phone isn’t working, or more likely is about to implode in a cascade of error messages, I refuse to leave the mall. Just as well, it seems Loralie wants to go exploring.
We decided to hit the Walden’s bookstore, only now it isn’t a Walden’s anymore. It’s a Borders Express. And I have no idea what that would be. A smaller book selection at outlet mall markups? Maybe the Starbucks seats less and only serves Espresso. Who knows.
All I do know is that it doesn’t make any sense, because directly across from the mall is a Border’s super mega store. I mean, if you pull out of the parking lot, you’re already sitting in the non-fiction section.
We didn’t bother to go in, and decided to solve a different mystery.
It seems they’re putting on a new wing at Dulles Town Center mall. Outside are a bunch of lights highlighting a ton of expansive construction. We wanted to know what it was, so we walked down to that end of the mall, and were sadly surprised by a bunch of dicks. Literally.
Was a movie theater going in? How about a new wing for the mall? Nope. A Dick’s sporting good store, two levels it seems, is going in. They had dick posters all over the place.
We decided to walk on. And Loralie thought it might be fun to visit one of her old haunts: Victoria’s Secret. And this time, she had two men in tow.
Just as we were about to enter the store, Loralie spotted her old boss. And, in an aggressive act of work avoidance, she dodged getting noticed, suggesting that instead we go upstairs to the lingerie store.
We didn’t resist. We waited out side…
…for about five seconds.
Loralie started showing me perfumes (and, for the record, I _hate_ perfume). She picked up a bottle and said “this is the new version of the one you said you liked last year.”
Harrumph! I don’t remember saying I liked anything last year. I took a whiff expecting to be overwhelmed by either concentrated musky soap or urine scented rose petals, the kind of smell you expect from the old lady in the pew in front of you who can’t sing on key each Sunday.
But, to my surprise, the scent was alluring and inviting.
You’d think that’s a good thing, until you realize that if you put perfume on Tamara, some strange chemical reaction occurs and it ends up smelling like someone dissolving tin foil with a vat of acid.
I admitted Loralie was right, and we started to explore the rest of the store. Which, I’m going to point out was filled with underwear. Lots of it.
Only problem, it was the ugliest underwear you ever saw. The colors looked so pastel that you thought it was Easter. The nicer looking stuff had been attacked by someone with a Ronco bedazzler. The lace looked more like the doilies my grandmother used on her chairs and table. I mean, really, what is sexy about a 70’s pattern that looks like an Austin Powers poster? Ick, yuck, ick.
Loralie tried her best to help me find something, just on principle, that I liked. The sales clerks offered to help, but Loralie fended them off. I think it was a matter of personal honor.
During her pervasive panty plowing, she stumbled into the oddest pair of panties that I’d ever seen. So, I went and grabbed my camera.
It was at that point the store manager came over and told me I wasn’t allowed to take a picture of their panties in the store.
I asked why.
She said it was store policy. I couldn’t take a picture in the store.
“That’s dumb,” I said aloud, as now there were other employees and customers watching, “what prevents me from buying the panties, leaving the store, taking a picture, and bringing them back? Isn’t that the same thing?”
I reached in my wallet and pulled out a credit card.
“You’re not serious,” she responded.
“But I am, and I’d like to buy these panties please,” and I put the card on the table. As she was ringing me up, I made the comment, “I’m fairly certain that I’m going to change my mind in about 30 seconds. You do have a return policy, correct?”
Her mouth dropped open as she got me a bag.
“Hmm, I don’t know that the bag is even needed, do you? In fact, I don’t think I’ll even be touching them.” To which at that point, I signed the receipt, had Loralie take my fresh panties, and leave the store. We walked right in front of the display case of the store, and took the forbidden picture.
When I’m lifting a skirt, the last thing I want on my mind is whether or not I have to run spell check.
At that point, I walked back into the store, said they didn’t fit, and wanted to return them. This little red tape dance created a substantial amount of paperwork for the manager, but, technically, I did legally own the panties, and it was my right to photograph my property.
The only problem at this point was somewhere between walking out of the store and back in, I lost the receipt.
Yup, I wasn’t sure how I did it, but apparently this side comment was all it took to bring a different sales clerk to tears via laughter.
Turns out the receipt was in the bag, and having never touched my own product, I never knew that.
Just so you know I’m not making up any of this, the returned receipt is shown off to the right.
I checked my phone, which by the way was the whole point of this, and dang it, it was still working. Frustrated, I decided it was time to get dinner.
Now you may think we headed to the Texas Roadhouse. Nope. Oddly enough, I was too tired for steak. So, instead, we went to the Japanese Steakhouse… (look, when your wife leaves, let’s see if you can hold a coherent thought).
We got there and it looked like the place was closed. But there was a big, hand written sign on the door saying “yes, we’re open.” So, we go in.
Turns out one phase of the electrical system across the whole mall was out. I don’t know how this happened, or what this even means in electrical engineering terms, but all I know is that the left side of the restaurant was deader than a Bush presidential speech. The right however, was functioning just fine.
I actually wish it was the other way around, because the air conditioning was controlled by the part of the power that was out. Remember, these Japanese chefs use fire to cook with. It was 78 degrees in there and rising.
Our poor cook was sweating over the hot stove, literally, trying to get our meal out, be entertaining, and not pass out from heat exhaustion.
So far, on day two, I’ve had my phone die, been out done by a minimum wage tel-co brat, lost a bookstore, gained a dick, been chastised in a place of unchastity, thwarted corporate nonsense, and dined in a sauna. For some reason, when my wife is around, this kind of stuff just doesn’t happen.
Ok, it does happen, but she knows how to distract me so I don’t notice it. (Sometimes she lets me chew on her shiny keys and ride in the front part of the shopping cart.)
And, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse…
…we lost power, and finished our meal in romantic candle light. Exactly the kind of experience you’d want to have with your wife, only she’s not around.
(At least I wasn’t in the bathroom, like someone else in our party. I guess I do have something to be thankful for after all.)