is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
How I know my mother's crossed over to the dark side
Friday, December 12, 2008
I was on the phone with my mom yesterday, complaining about Pier 1 again and telling her about how I couldn't talk long because the nervous-voiced sales woman was checking to see if the media cabinet I ordered weeks and weeks and weeks ago is finally in.
I have not had an easy time getting this media cabinet (and of course, I cannot link to it because the only thing worse than actually getting furniture you've ordered from Pier 1 is trying to see what kind of furniture they sell online). There has been much debate with several different managers about whether or not a floor model can be sold, how long it takes to order one since the floor models look like they've been run over by a band of toddlers in their older siblings' Heelys, and then of course, if the one I ordered arrives just shy of the "too fucked up to sell" line. All I'm trying to do is give my money to the nice woman in the red apron and get something that doesn't wobble to rest my TV upon, possibly a nice vanilla-scented candle.
Just telling my mom that the sales woman was checking the inventory set her off on my behalf. She was with me when one manager relentlessly tried to get me to open a credit card and then told me she could fix up the inch-deep well of a scratch on the front with a furniture marker. Let me be clear: My mom and I can rock a Sharpie and we both have been known to open a credit card for a substantial discount. But this was not the time nor the accent piece for either of those things.
"THAT Pier One!" My mother yelled out like she was back in front of the second graders she taught for a gajillion years. "Do they know you are a PROFESSIONAL BLOGGER?! Did you tell them that you will be WRITING ABOUT THIS? ON. LINE. They need to know who they are messing with. Don't they get it?! DON'T THEY?!"
I was - and this will surprise you, friends -- silent. I looked around, just to see if there were any cameras aimed at me from across the street or possibly someone lurking who would laugh before I could.
I have not ever been sure my mom completely gets what I do for a living but apparently, she is well aware of the (cough) power I command, the pure and efficacious manner with which I storm through the interwebs. Writing about (sure, keep coughing)...ummm, boobs and hoo-hoos. Oh, and shoes. Yes, the people at Pier 1 will be very, very intimidated by the blogger in the pink platforms.
Ooooh, she's scary. Quick! Wave away the marker fumes before she Twitters about her rickety ass media cabinet!
Thanks, Mom. For getting it just enough to raise your fist at the Pier 1 people and for standing in my corner. Of the internet and the store. I think you deserve a badge. No, not the kind that makes a blog look pretty and validated, the real kind. So that retailers everywhere know who they're messing with when we walk in, ready to shop.
