For those of you that don’t know (literally everyone), I write for a website called LifeinLA.com. My job responsibilities include reviewing different events around the city. I get to pick what I review and, again, against my better judgment, I chose to review a boutique this morning. It was worse than anything I could have possibly imagined.
I was nervous while preparing for today’s interview, but also excited. I felt very confident wearing my $20 sundress to this high-end shop, just outside of Beverly Hills. Once I got there I was greeted by Carla, the store’s stylist. Carla is classic Los Angeles. Blond, plastic surgery, older than my mother, and thinner than I’ll ever be. Carla was rocking a fedora as she sized me up. Carla knew I was writing a review so she was basically forced to be nice to me but I could tell she was unimpressed.
Me: Carla, pick out some clothes for me. I’m bad at shopping.
Carla: Ok, well would you be comfortable in something a little longer?
(Strike 1 – Carla just called me a slut.)
Me: Carla, I bought this dress in the junior’s department at Macy’s. Would you say that was a bad idea?
Carla: I just think you may want something a little more mature.
(Strike 2 – Carla just called me old.)
Me (Holding up a dress): What about this?
Carla: I’m not sure that we have that in your size.
(Strike 3 – Carla just called me fat.)
What a whore. We were off to a real rocky start and I’m not sure if you know this but I’m a lippy mother fucker and I had a few things I wanted to say to old-woman Carla, but I refrained. I had planned to walk out of that place with bags of clothes and so far, we had reached a stalemate. In addition, I had initially been thrilled when the owner told me, “We don’t carry pants here.” That was excellent news for me as I’ve recently decided that I’m too fat to wear pants. I’ve completely extradited them from my wardrobe. Pants or no pants, I was already in a tough spot but had to bounce back as I had an article to write.
Me: Alright Carla, bring me some clothes. I’ll be in the dressing room.
Do you know what that bitch brought me?! LONG DRESSES!!! Carla, this is a God damn slap in the face. Have you seen me? Do I look like someone who can wear a long pencil skirt, you soulless monster? I HAVEN’T HAD LIPOSUCTION CARLA! I am a woman! A woman with hips and a macaroni-and-cheese-gut. I’M FROM CHICAGO CARLA! Do you know what a diet is for me Carla? It means boiling my brats in water instead of beer, you sick fuck. I hate you Carla. I should take a piss in your fedora Carla BUT I CAN’T, BECAUSE I DON’T DRINK WATER!!!!
This is not how I anticipated spending my Sunday. After trying on those torturous long dresses, Carla completely gave up and just started bringing me pieces of cloth that she claimed I could wrap around my body and fasten with a belt. I’m fucking on to you Carla. You think I can’t tell that this isn’t an outfit? Gimmie back my junior’s dress.
Needless to say, I left the shop empty handed and dead inside. I realize I’m often dead inside but I was more dead than usual. I had planned to grocery shop afterwards but now I was paranoid about my short skirt and instead came home to eat pad thai while shot-gunning diet cokes. (YOU HEAR ME CARLA?! I SAID DIET COKE!)
Anyway, I want to kill myself. No big deal. I will not be writing for anymore fashion stores. (Ugh…look at me. Fashion store? Is that even a thing?) I was ill-prepared for today’s events and quite frankly, I should have known better. For now, I will go back to my wardrobe of Target smocks and leggings. Carla may be better looking than me, she may be thin enough to wear pants, and she probably has the luxury of going home at night to a living environment that has rooms…but I have youth on my side. I am young and vibrant and I give a great blow job – without having to remove my dentures. Watch your back Carla… I’m comin’ for ya.