In the past, everywhere I've lived has been a fairly easy driving distance from a major city. While I don't fancy big city living for myself, I have no problem visiting (unless we're talking about Detroit, south side Chicago or east Los Angeles).
Why am I telling you all of this, you wonder? Because last weekend I went on a female family member trip to Nashville that made me question both my city skills and my very identity.
In a big city, I likely will never get mistaken for a local. In Nashville I didn't wear "together" clothes (or college girl short dresses with cowboy boots) or carry a guitar, plus two members of my party wore tourist duds: visors and fanny packs. Somehow, along with my flip flops and giant mom purse, I must carry an invisible sucker sign with me.
While my sister and I walked through the mall, every kiosk owner reached out to grab our hands. They all told us our skin looked dry or wrinkled or our nails looked like they could use a buffing. The food court vendors singled us out to come try a sample of their teriyaki chicken. Why? Did we look lost? Or dehydrated?
As we walked by a fragrance store, the girl working asked us to smell a perfume sample. Since we made eye contact and she stepped in front of us, we felt obliged to smell the little paper. No sense in being rude to a stranger, after all. We gave her the requisite "Mmm" reaction then started to walk on. Wait! If we liked that sample, we would love what she had in the store!
We should have bolted right then, but we followed her into the shop. She asked what kind of perfume we normally wear. I embarrassed myself by telling her some kind of Victoria's Secret Body fragrance (poor, country bumpkin!). My sister was informed that her Burberry London (not so country bumpkin) was a winter scent.
She gave us some other samples then asked which one we liked best. I didn't really know; at that point it all just smelled like alcohol to me. I said the third scent. We tried to leave again. She brought out ta pink box from the shelf. She told us that this fragrance normally retails for $108. We both looked disinterested... but she said if we wanted to buy it today, she would give us last week's sale and make it $36.
This was a shocking discount. My sister looked intrigued, but we were wavering. We told her we would think about it and if we had any money left after shopping, maybe we would come back and buy it. She saw her fish starting to get away, so she dropped the bomb. If we wanted to purchase it now, she would give us an even greater discount; she would price it at $29.99. Down from $108!
Of course my sister said she would take it. I paused and said I would also buy one. $34 after tax.
We walked away feeling kind of accomplished - like we just nabbed a killer deal.
A few hours later, we had some time to kill so I got out my phone and looked up our new perfume. Then I looked again. What the...? The same perfume on Amazon was selling for $18.99 with customer reviews complaining that the scent didn't last more than a few hours.
Something that you should know about my sister and me: we avoid confrontation like a shrub full of ticks. We were still in the mall. We had the option to march back in the store and tell the fragrance girl to shove all 3.4 oz of this perfume up her butt, or we could silently lament our naivety and count this as a life lesson learned...
How did it turn out? Before work this morning, I put 8 pumps of the cursed perfume on. I couldn't smell it at 9:14 am (that was me sniffing down my shirt at my desk).
You would think a tough lesson was learned that day. But, it turns out you can't shake stupidity in 24 hours. The very next day while taking a trip on the river in the General Jackson showboat, I fell victim to the ole "don't list your prices" scheme. They assume someone like me will be keen on getting the giant commemorative cup the drink comes in and will pay any price for it. They also search your purse before you go in to make sure you will dehydrate without their drinks (the purse checking young man raised his 'eyebrowns' at the two prescription bottles he found in the middle section of my purse. After various ibuprofen and allergy pill spills in the bottom of my purse, I've found these to be the most effective carrying cases. I awkwardly told him I am not a pill popper.)
On the boat, in the drink line, I had the 20 oz commemorative pilsner in mind until I saw the person in front of me order the 36 oz fun bowl. I knew I had to have it. I was too embarrassed to ask the price lest I be judged by the showboat bar staff. I ordered two. She turned around and poured some drinks from a cardboard carton into the blender, added ice then put it in the fun bowls. She unsmilingly told me it would be $38. My lack of confrontation would not allow me to tell her that I could have bought that quart of drinks at Jewel for $3.99 and her commemorative fun bowl would likely give me lead poisoning. Instead, I took my fun bowls and reflected on my country bumpkin-ness once again. After a few sips, the cardboard chemical mixture was burning my stomach and making me feel like puking. I carried it around for two hours then poured it out in the bathroom.
Now the General Jackson commemorative fun bowl can sit on the shelf next to my perfume collecting cat hair and dust. Here's is a picture of the fun bowl with Fat Linda to give you an idea of scale. This is not an optical illusion, Fat Linda and the fun bowl are really that big.
So it turns out there is no such thing as a 200% markdown on quality perfume. And drink gluttony costs $19 and gives you a stomachache. I have no business going out in commercial public.
I'm going to look up some classes on how to effectively say no to people trying to sell you things. They will likely tell me the class costs $500.
Side note, completely unrelated: my 4-year-old keeps walking around saying, "Mamma mia, diarrhea" today. We tend value humor above appropriateness in the Clinton house.
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