I work at a mall. Ask me how I survive?

I've always hated malls. I love to shop but I've always hated malls. They are nasty and dirty and mallrats drive me insane and I would burn a place down based purely on the fact that Abercrombie & Fitch exists within it. I grew up in Kansas City where The Plaza is mecca. Beautiful, classic, interesting mecca. Most importantly, it's outdoors. And not in the strip mall Fashion Bug next to a nail salon that will eventually get busted for meth and a mexican restaurant that will eventually get busted for illegal immigration (both happened.) Now, after years of working behind a computer, I work at a mall (for the past year and a half.) And I still hate malls. I just love my coworkers and flexible schedule and the fact that I go to work to stare off into space, occasionally touch someones face, wander around, befriend the Apple Store dudes and look at the bright colors because that makes it worth all worth it (most of the time...for now.)





Yep, I graduated from St. Olaf College, a school that was not cheap, and did well at St. Olaf College, a school that was not easy. And now I work at a mall. But...like I've said...and I still believe...it affords me my rock 'n' roll lifestyle. And that wherein lies the challenge and awesomeness of life. Yeah, The Department Store is a big place, with lots of shitheads, but the good outweighs the bad. And the good will always mock the bad with fierce intensity once the bad gets all the way up the escalator. Someday, I will write a book about the ridiculousness I've experienced working at a mall (oh god the mall hair, oh god the lack of genuine conversation, oh god the camel-toe and belly shirts I have seen...all from workers at The Department Store.)






Plus...like I've said...and I still believe...I have some seriously awesome coworkers.

In school, we probably wouldn't have been friends. Except work Danielle, who became one of my closest friends (then she moved to AZ,) we never do much socially (except that kickass time they all came to the Marah concert with me.) We don't have a ton in common. But we spend all day together and thus we have become family. And we bicker and laugh like sisters. And it surprises me when I come to the realization that they know me REALLY well.

We play games to pass the time...

For instance:

1) If you were a food, what would you be (work Danielle was not happy when I said she would be beef)?
2) Chuck, fuck or marry this hideous manager, this hideous manager or this hideous manager?
3) Where do you see yourself in five years?
4) What kind of guy do you see each other with? (To quote Radwa: "Alexa, you are gonna end up with a guy that is sexy...but in that homeless kind of way." I fell over in my chair that I wasn't supposed to be sitting in, laughing so hard that people walking by thought I was having a medical emergency)
5) Oh...and there was that time I asked my vegan/animal rights activist coworker if she would rather
1) Eat a huge McDonald's hamburger?
OR
1) Kill her beloved pit-bull Ginger?

Uhhhh...she started tearing up at the idea of killing her pet and I realized that the games had gone a tad too far...but I don't think I really learned my lesson. I never do.

Last night, at the Son Volt show (where Jason Isbell, formerly of the DBT, opened), CoworkerKristin and I were sitting at a table as I was scarfing down some vegan banana bread that tasted like flavored toilet paper rolls. We were playing a game of "Do you see anyone in the vicinity who you are attracted to?" As we are both attracted to the same type of guys (and we are both extreme pussies with these type of guys...or any guys who we would eventually like to "know"...thus we have bonded), the answer seemed to always be...

no
no
no
no
no
yeah definitely not
maybe
no
no
no

Then I saw him walk by and I inhaled sharply. He looked at CoworkerKristin. And he looked at me. Right in the eyes. My hand clutching the vegan toilet paper crust was shaking a bit. It was Jason Isbell standing by our table and I was star struck. Under Bruce, the Drive-By Truckers are in my next tier of awesomeness (with a few others.) I've had a violet and soothing love affair with them the moment I heard Zip City for the first time. I have been rock 'n' rolled to the core with this band. And Jason is a huge part of that (or was...wahhh...sniff...wahhh.) He kept walking and I whispered...loudly...

That was Jason! THAT WAS JASON ISBELL!

It very much reminded me of the time Marah walked by in Chicago at my first show in 2005, before they knew me as "Minnesota!", and I had a mini heart-attack.

CoworkerKristin looked at me and said...

Oh My God! My first thought when he walked by was "No. Not him"

As in, she wasn't attracted to him either.

JASON! MY SOUTHERN EYE CANDY!

But then he started his set...



(Disclaimer...those shots are not from last night...they are from May 17, 2006 when the DBT played at First Ave the night before my last birthday...my fancy schmancy camera isn't allowed in First Ave and I can't bear to go back to my point and shoot yet for these shows...It kills me every time I see some bad ass pose or facial expression or lighting effect that I cannot capture.)

With his boyish looks and wide Southern smile, you'd think he wouldn't be capable of rocking the shit out of song. How could someone that looks that young instill so much soul into his music? But he did. The songs of his new record blended well with old DBT songs. And while it is hard to come to terms with the fact that the force of nature that is the Drive-By Truckers are not around him, I am thrilled to see where Jason takes his solo career.

Plus, when he sat down to play the keyboard for his final song, I totally checked to see what side he sets his Southern charm on. This is a habit I blame on my college days when some of my profs wore really tight pants. And I was just a lonely girl from Missouri who only got drunk once her senior year of highschool and went to prom with her hairdresser's nephew.

After Jason's set, CoworkerKristin looked at me with eyes wide open.

I CAN'T BELIEVE I EVER SAID NO!

Mission Accomplished. A fellow Jason lover was born.

See...the thing is...when I really think hard about last night...I just enjoyed Jason Isbell more than Son Volt.

I love Son Volt's records. Windfall is (almost) right up there with DBT's Outfit & Decoration Day. And I really enjoy his newest album "The Search." This was the first time I saw Son Volt in concert and I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. I've been schooled in the ways of Jay (and his extreme seriousness) before. But Jay Farrar just didn't seem to enjoy himself up there. Yes, he takes what he has written very seriously. Yes, he has written some killer tunes. But I literally turned to CoworkerKristin halfway through and made a bet with her that he wouldn't smile once during his show. I lost the bet because there were a couple slight smirks towards the end. And to quote CoWorker Kristin...

He hasn't changed his hair since 1994.

It was seriously the shaggy hair club up there on that stage.

I realize this is part of Jay, part of Son Volt, part of his persona but I have seen painful, serious music performed with so much soul that it makes my heart and tear ducts burst. I couldn't decide if he just seemed confident, like this was something so normal that he didn't need to put on any sort of production, or just arrogant. And I cannot stress enough how much I hate arrogance.

I am pretty sure, in the end, that Jay, though riding the fine line, ends up on the winning side with confident.

I didn't hate Son Volt by any means. Hearing Windfall live was awesome, as was Action (which is my current favorite song from the new album) and hearing the Uncle Tupelo song Life Worth Livin' kicked some ass. His set really picked up for me about halfway through when I became obsessed with the sneer on guitarist Chris Masterson's face and the way that bassist Andrew Duplantis just attacked those strings. I kept imagining the calluses peeling back from the tips of his fingers and the stringy muscle underneath that would just keep playing. Chris, with his sculpted Edward Scissorhands haircut, would just grimace, playing hard. Andrew, with his surfer dirty blond shag, would just smile, attacking those strings. It was like the devil and the angel on either side of some distant, stoic stranger.

In the end, though all extraordinarily talented, they only seemed to really mesh as one band a small handful of times. When they interacted with each other, gave to each other, they opened up to the audience and that's when I personally got those rock concert chills. When Jay would project that seriousness outwards, the music spilled over us and I really believed him.

I just really love Jason. Because I want my dirty rock music to have some infectious joy connected. And palpable (remember...new favorite word) pain.

Oh and back on the subject of work...I will always love to poop on the clock. It's all part of my Southern charm.

Pointless Points I Thought/Obsessed About Today

1) After a previous night's dinner of eleven potstickers (portion control is for pussies when it comes to my Asian delectables), never ever eat a Cliff Bar and a bowl of Kashi Go Lean cereal for breakfast. Never ever. That's about 8,000% of your daily fiber. After any night's dinner, never venture into that morning territory. Ever.

2) When a saleslady quickly tries to get you to hurry up and buy your damn blush, just buy your damn blush and leave. Because when she says "Excuse me but my coworker will ring you up; I have to run an errand" what she really mean is "If you don't leave right now I'm going to crap all over you and your new blush." 8,000% of your daily fiber causes epidemic-like liquification. Never ever. Ever. Ever.



I have never run so fast through jewelry and hosiery. Ever.

3) Watching the American Idol auditions causes me to stress eat. Stress eating hummus and peanut butter is never a good idea after one has been dealt the explosive go's. Deciding not to go to the gym to run and lift, however, is a good idea.

4) Hugh Laurie is my boyfriend. He looks damn fine dressed in jeans and a raggy t-shirt. Especially as he seductively caresses your intestines like a sausage maker. Rawr. Texting Morgie every two minutes during the episode about my awesome boyfriend Hugh and all his awesome imdb facts is definitely fun for BOTH of us!

5) ******24 SPOILER!******** James Cromwell is a far cry away from his sunny days on the farm caring for precious Babe. That'll do, Daddy Dearest, that'll do.



6) Looking up "Babe" on google image will not result in precious images of the piggy Babe for a good, oh, five pages. It will, however, produce a different kind of pork.

6) Series of Six Feet Under are the best gift Video Update in the Quarry could ever give me, especially after the $40 late fine for Ice Princess. Don't ask. The gods of good cinema mock me.

7) The website www.showusyourwiener.com is a goldmine of laughter and euphoria. I bet this l'il guy had HIS 8.000% of daily fiber too!



8) Drinking orange juice then drinking coffee does right afterwards not make either one taste good. Especially when you realize how much that has aided your sky-rocketing fiber intake for the day.

9) Having the superbowl halftime numbers stuck in your head all day is not necessarily a bad thing (no I didn't miraculously start caring about sports...It was a killer halftime show...KILLER!) Especially when you start belting out Purple Rain into a make-up brush, almost at the top of your lungs. The Department Store is your own personal stage.

10) Winter telivision/Netflix is one of the few aspects of my Minnesota seasonal depressive winter self that doesn't want to make me explode. Well...that...and this...




YAY DANCING WITH FRIENDS! YAY THEATRE CREATION WITH FRIENDS! YAY 80'S DANCE VIDEO PLANS WITH UNCLE NONO! YAY STAYING HOME AND NURSING SHREDDED INNARDS WITH HOURS OF WINTER TV! YAY!

Photography by Badonkajohnks. Adobe Innards by Me.

How are you, Chuck? OUTSTANDING!

I figured something out today.

I like to be in control.

Of every possible situation in my life.

Except...you know...in the throes of passion.

But even then I get to choose who throes me.

I walked into work today to do the closing shift at The Department Store (now to be called TDS) and ran into a coworker by the restroom. I asked her how the day had been. She replied with "it's a world of suck."

I asked her why and she ominously proclaimed that it shall all be explained once I get to my counter.

There has been a new TDS development. Whenever we answer the phone, we have to say...

"It's an OUTSTANDING day at TDS! How may I help you?"

Seriously.

Are you serious?

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

I simultaneously threw up my breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and shit out my two mugs full of Birchwood Blend french press. Imagined barf n' shit is never a good way to start a work day.

It's an OUTSTANDING day at TDS!?!?!?!?!?!??!!?!?!??!!??!??!?!

They want to turn us into robots where literally the customer could do all of the following during a single transaction:

1) return a three quarter empty jar of moisturizer because it didn't make her look like she was eight years old again
2) take a shit on the floor
3) smear SUCKA! on the mirrors with the shit
4) howl like a monkey while calling us shallow cunts.

And she could dance herself out the automatic doors, rubbing her crotch with fistfuls of exchanged money, with ne'er a glance from management or security.

We would just have to smile politely, tell them her behavior was OUTSTANDING because apparently WE'RE NEVER ALSO ALLOWED TO SAY NO TO A CUSTOMER!

Never say no.

Rapists abound applaud TDS' newest developments.

To TDS, their employees are nothing but expendable robots who could be replaced because we don't like to force people to open credit cards (that have a 26% interest rate) after they've already said no (twice) and we don't like to answer the phones sounding like we run a children's television show on PBS hosted by my insipid, uber conservative, hyper Christian Uncle.

Outstanding.

I really couldn't figure out why this whole "Outstanding!" thing bothered me so much until I realized that it makes me incredibly embarrassed.

Which is rich coming from this girl.

BUT I realized that I like to be IN CONTROL of embarrassing situations!

Here...


Or here...


Here even...


All at work. All looking like an asshole. AN ASSHOLE BY CHOICE!

All my coworkers made fun of Outstanding! All day. We prank called each other just to point and laugh as we all tried to suck down our pride to answer the phone sounding like a douche-bot. My friend Brian said it was disgusting. My dad said "oh fucking shit" and then laughed at me.

It just sounds really really stupid. Say it out loud. "It's an outstanding day at TDS. This is [insert name] at [insert department.] How can I help you?" Do you really want to say that? Can you say that without sounding lame? Or laughing at yourself? On the other hand...do you really want to sit there and listen to a salesperson say it? What if you have to be transferred from Guest Services to a certain department? Because THEN you would have to sit there and listen to that shit TWICE?

I want to be proud of what I do. I'm not. Most of the time this doesn't really bother me because I live a very rich life outside of work. I have music. I have art. I have theatre. I'm not a starving orphan in Darfur. I'm a middle class white girl who collects too many trinkets and likes to eat food with a lot of taste and texture.

Sometimes, I really hate saying that I only work in retail for cosmetics at TDS and I'm not working on a show right now. It's that shitty, judgmental part of my personality coming out to jerk off on the ridiculous expectations I have of myself. It’s just that…I spend 35 hours of week in a mall. That's the majority of my waking week. That sucks. I've spent more time in a mall this past year then I have my entire life combined. That's scary. And sad. I hate malls.

The good news is when I move to New York in September, I'm TOTALLY gonna be a part time dog walker. With a fistful of leashes, pride means nothing and joy comes in the form of a personable pup with short legs.

I still think make-up is fun. I love my bright red lipstick and swishy dark brown eyeliner. I love dressing up and taking my time to look good. I love doing make-up for my friends, especially for my friends in a band or when my friends get married.

It's just that...I loved Bobbi Brown for so long and always wanted to work for her line. Just like that night I worked at First Ave, I've gotten the make-up thing out of my system and am ready to move on. To what? I don't know right now.

I know...I get paid a good amount of non-commissioned money (meaning a very high base pay for retail) to play with make-up all day and shoot the shit with my mostly awesome coworkers. But even that gets really old. Because, in reality, the management is not outstanding. Standing around all day bored is not outstanding. TDS is not outstanding. Though part of me really does believe in Bobbi Brown Cosmetics and its awesomeness in the world of make-up, it's not really all that outstanding. Not for me.

I actually pulled a Junior High moment today when I read the Uncle Tupelo liner notes at work. How I got away with it? I hid it behind the Bobbi Brown Cosmetics newsletter, like it was Seventeen magazine behind my Science book or something. I still managed to reach my desired selling goal, clean, take out the garbage, and close properly. SO EAT IT! Sweet sweetness.

I just want to say "I'm a..." and be excited and proud about that. I don't have an answer for the "..." yet.

I'm done.

With one final point...

There's a scene in Six Feet Under, Season Two, when Ruth the mom is talking to Claire's guidance counselor. He says that Claire is acting that way because she just wants a meaningful life. "Doesn't everyone," Ruth asks. He says, "you'd be surprised."

I can't stop thinking about that one scene I saw two weeks ago. What's my meaningful life?

Luckily...I stopped caring about the Outstanding! shit for about two moments when I was sitting out on a bench on a break. I was reading Chuck Klosterman's "Sex, Drugs, and Coca Puffs*" when I got to the chapter about Pam Anderson being the modern day equivalent to Marilyn Monroe (he makes a valid, albeit insane, point.) As I sat there sipping my giant mall employee sized Diet Coke and savoring my mint chocolate cookie from Mrs. Fields (MALLTASTIC!), I read this paragraph in which he refers to the Pam Anderson/Tommy Lee sex tape...

"My eyes have drifted back to my TV just now, and I spent a few moments looking at Tommy Lee's penis. I realize this is no brilliant insight, but Tommy Lee's genitalia is stupidly huge. In the scene I'm watching right now, he appears to be beating his penis against the steering wheel of a boat. It's oddly reassuring. In fact, it's making me think about Joe DiMaggio again: DiMaggio used his 36-inch, 36-ounce bat to hit safely in fifty-six straight games, and Tommy used his 10-inch, 13-ounce bat to hit Heather Locklear, BOBBI BROWN, and the single-most important woman of our times."

BOBBI BROWN! What the FUCK!?!?!??!!!

I sat there, shocked and wondering...Who the FUCK could he mean? Was it a typo? Did Chuck actually mean Bobby Brown (as in Whitney Houston's husband)? I mean, I know he's not gay but I wouldn't put it past Tommy Lee to take his baseball bat dick out of his leather pants and slap Bobby Brown with it. But that's not what Chuck means. It couldn't be. I know it. Dude...did MY Bobbi Brown, as in my in spite of everything cosmetics leader, actually date Tommy Lee back in the day or something? I thought about it for a moment. There's no fucking way. Because she's little miss natural mother of three married to some rich dude in a big house on the shore and I'm pretty sure he's big mister nasty who fucks a lot of holes AROUND the shore, be it woman, goat, or canned cranberry sauce. So it had to be some sort of typo. But then I couldn't let it go. It was just too TOO good.

The scene played out in my head.

This man....


…would take out his horse cock to hit this woman.


I was imagining what kind of kinky alterna-sex Tommy Lee and Bobbi Brown would have that involved a lot of dick choreography. Sex that was simultaneously skanky and wholesome, a melding of the two worlds. For some reason, doggie style kept coming into my head. This, I could JUST NOT figure out.

I was tripping on my daydream.

I called my roommate and she looked it up on google. We discovered that Chuck ACTUALLY meant this woman...


As in BobbiE Brown from Warrant's "Cherry Pie" video.

It all makes sense now.

It was indeed a typo.

A wonderful, personally significant, ridiculous, perverse typo.

After work, I got in my car, turned up my radio up to blare Uncle Tupelo’s “No Depression,” audibly shuddered to rid myself of TDS nast and peeled the fuck out of that mall.

Outstanding!