Un aristo d’enfer loathes shopping malls but a bourgeois housewife is drawn like a moth to a flame…
It is not my fault that local peasants enjoy queueing for hours to arrive at that hole in the mall that sells “jewelry.” It is also not my fault that a well meaning friend spent far too much cash in that hovel for my daughter’s 13th birthday.
It is, however, entirely my fault that instead of donating her gift to charity while she was at school, I consciously chose to muck in with the masses in attempt to get back the cash.
Un aristo d’enfer knows how to demand her rights…
In my haughtiness though, I lost site of the fact that this was not Bergdorf Goodman’s, but a bourgeois den of iniquity. My bad.
A two hour (I kid you not) death march toward the entrance and my daughter and I were
rewarded with a greeting blinded by a plump, middle aged troll in an ill fitting Chicco’s blouse. We were completely underwhelmed. I announced that it was our misfortune to have to call her out from under her bridge but we needed to dump this crap pronto Squanto. We wanted cash. She squinted at us over bedazzled spectacles and asked if we had bought this ourselves.
“Oh no, we would never buy this stuff.” I retorted. My daughter stifled a giggle at my side.
She wiped the drool from the side of her mouth and schlumped off. She returned with her the head of her order: a magnificent specimen of why one should finish school. Karl Lagerfeld’s worst nightmare incarnate. I pushed my daughter behind me to shield her. Head troll gave me the side eye. It wasn’t intentional, her eyes were crossed from having to look at this crap all day. I don’t count troll among the languages I speak, but through the mumble and flying spittle I managed to catch “franchise” and “exchange.” Cash would not be forthcoming.
I could feel my blue blood pressure rising.
We spent yet more time trading in the old crap for new crap. In the end my daughter chose something she
really liked could tolerate. She is an aristo d’enfer in training after all. The trolls gave us the obligatory “we’re-so-sorry-we-couldn’t-accomodate-your-simple-request” nonsense. I countered with, “I don’t care. It’s crap anyway.” I did not insist that they bow. It would’ve caused their thick bodies to fall over. I felt generous and magnanimous. Our ordeal was over. My daughter high fived me as we left.
We made a beeline for the nearest Chanel counter. It only took two Champagne flutes of Cliquot and the entire Sublimage skin care line before I felt like my aristo d’enfer self again.