Yesterday, I went to the mall to get the Christmas presents for myself, courtesy of a check my mom sent me last week. It’s kind of an annual tradition in our family. Problem is, the last few times I’ve been shopping, nothing has really looked cute on me. (This is entirely an issue with my self-image and not the clothes, and I know that.) But I also know that I would’ve gotten hell if I had used my Christmas money for something like groceries or utility bills, so I was determined to find clothes that I liked. I hit at least 9 different stores, but by god, I found a few things that didn’t look too awful. So hooray for that, Christmas shopping is officially over for me.

For the most part, my encounters with mall employees were pleasant or unnoteworthy, except for two little things that I thought would make funny anecdotes. Number one: While passing through the fragrance section of a department store, I stopped to smell a couple of things I hadn’t seen before. As I started to leave, one of the fragrance ladies jumped out with her little piece of paper that had been sprayed with perfume to offer it to me. I’m actually a big fan of this type of marketing, as opposed to the women who try to assault you by spraying you with the actual perfume. Sure, give me the piece of paper, I can throw it away in 5 seconds after I’ve decided I don’t like it. I’ll be much happier doing that, rather than having to take a shower to get rid of the smell.

So she comes up to me and says “New fragrance?”, and starts to hand me the paper. As soon as my hand touches it, she says in a voice about 10 times quieter than before, “… by Paris Hilton.” Doh! Too late now, I’ve already agreed to take the piece of paper by reaching for it. There’s no backing out of this little perfume transaction at this point. The funny part was that she was so clearly embarassed to have to push Paris Hilton’s perfume on people, I almost didn’t hear her say the name over the mall noise. So I took the paper and walked away, and it took every ounce of self-control in my body not to sniff it, turn around and say “Gee, it doesn’t smell like skank ho.” And of course, because I fought the urge and didn’t say it, I then got a wicked case of the church giggles in the middle of the mall. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. I’m sure people thought I was nuts.

The other incident took place on my way out. As I finished shopping, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten in something like 7 1/2 hours. I skipped hungry, and went straight to “If I don’t eat something now, I’m either going to faint or kill someone.” So I decided that on my way out of the mall, I would stop to get a pretzel dog. [Aside: If any of you have not yet experienced this most wondrous creation of the mall food court, do so immediately. It’s like a hot dog, only more buttery and salty. Translation: heaven.] There was a kiosk in the middle of the hallway that had perfumes and lotions, and as I walked past it, the guy working there asked me if I’d like to try something. I don’t know what it was, he had a bottle of something blue in his hands, and I wasn’t listening – I was a woman on a mission. I shook my head and said “no thanks.” That’s actually excessively polite for me when I have low blood sugar. Then he says, “Can I ask you something?” Um, ok. I stopped walking and turned around. He said, “Are your nails real or fake?” I was so confused, I don’t know why I didn’t realize that this was part of a sales pitch. I said, “They’re real,” and held my hand out to show him. He grabbed my hand and started to pull me toward his kiosk. He said, “Can I show you something that would be just amazing for your nails?” This guy obviously had no clue that he had just taken his life into his own hands by delaying me on my Quest for Pretzel Dog Bliss. So I gave him my biggest, sweetest “I’m being polite because that’s how my parents raised me, but if you don’t let go of my hand this instant, so help me, I’m leaving this mall with one of your eyeballs as a rearview mirror decoration” southern girl smiles, and I said, “No.” Very firm, no room for negotiation. A fleeting look of terror crossed his face, and he let go of my hand. I decided to let him live, despite the fact that I would’ve been at least 10 seconds closer to my pretzel dog if he hadn’t stopped me. Oh well.

Also, I have to give a shout-out to Sally over at Catoptric, who now has me completely and totally hooked on Project Runway. If any of you haven’t seen it, tune in immediately. The bitchiness is rampant. Rampant, I tell you! It’s so great. There are two of the gayest gay men I have ever seen in my life on that show. (And I used to be friends with a drag queen, so that’s saying something.) There’s also a guy on that show with cornrows, who I find oddly attractive. Which is kind of alarming, as I’m not typically a cornrow-loving kind of gal. Last night, they got rid of the girl with the constant sourpuss look on her face. And thank god, I was tired of looking at her, and her dresses were ugly.