The other day, I found myself literally trapped at a DFO – which, for the uninitiated, stands for “Direct Factory Outlet” and not, as acronymfinder.com suggested, the “Dairy Farmers of Ontario”.
Having fought the Boxing Day Sales-type bitch fight over parking, I had finally managed to find a spot in a far corner of the DFO Parking Suburb. But only once I’d pulled into it did I realise I was between two 4WDs that surely must have moonlighted as Monster Trucks when they weren’t ferrying young J’Aime and Tarquin to school during daylight hours. And since I was driving KT’s Mitsubishi station wagon, which seats you closer to the ground than any F1 racing car, I had no chance of seeing my way out until the Monster Trucks moved.
So I went shopping, which is what I had come for, after all. I found myself walking around and around in circles in that crazy cavernous place, chock full ‘o’ bargains, hungry hungry shoppers and spruikers galore, competing against each other and the piped music. (For the record: I don’t ever go into a shop where someone’s heckling the crowd with a microphone).
After a while, all that walking around began to create one of those “whirlpools” I used to make with my friends in above-ground pools in the 70s. Eventually the pull of the whirlpool got so strong that I got swept away into a frenzy of consumerism. I started getting that overwhelming feeling of “I need linen pillow cases!” “I have to buy pastel-coloured ramekins” and “Must. Have. Onion. Keeper. In the shape of an onion!!!!”.
At one point, I even got the “My life is incomplete without a watermelon-coloured bra with black lace trimming” feeling (we all get it from time to time). I was perusing the intimate apparel when I came face to face with one of the teachers from Mr Justice’s school. We both laughed small embarrassed laughs – me mostly because just moments beforehand I’d been looking in shocked awe at Size 8 G-strings and had also farted (one didn’t cause the other, I hasten to add). Luckily this embarrassing encounter broke my shopping reverie and, clutching my bags, I hastily headed straight for the nearest exit before I got dragged in again.
And so it should be told that I had come to the DFO merely to buy shoes. After two long hours, I finally emerged into natural daylight bearing shoes, trousers, sparkly pink socks and a milk pan. Which wasn’t too bad, considering the pull of that whirlpool.
However, I could see – all the way from across the carpark – that one of the Monster Trucks was still parked next to me, so I had to stop a while at “Villa and Hut” to have one of the Chai Lattes that they were “famed for” (What they neglected to say was that those Lattes were “famed for being milky cinnamon sock water”). And before you go hanging shit on me drinking chai lattes, let me just say, in my defence, that I had just bought a pair of Birkenstock Clogs. If you’re really going to do these things, you have to do them properly.
When, after another half an hour had passed, I could see that the remaining Monster Truck had gone, I was able to drive home and show my husband my new purchases. He laughed when he saw the Birkenstocks and said he’d have to leave his City Job as a show of support for my new Lifestyle Choice. And I got all huffy and said he’d have to keep that City Job so I could bloody-well afford Birkenstocks, even those allegedly “on sale” at the DFO.
And then, for the rest of the afternoon, I found myself stopping to admire my new smurf feet and wonder how from such a Celebration of Consumerism could come such Chiropodiatric Comfort. At long last, I had the type of shoes that complemented my unshaven legs, that were very unlikely to press hard down upon the accelerator of a Monster Truck in city traffic or even ever tread the concrete floors of that DFO again. Unless of course, it’s the Dairy Farmers of Ontario and they’re into, you know, organic milk.
Oh that is funny. I like the sound of those shoes.
Indeed! Everyone should have a pair. I think there would be far fewer wars or reality TV shows and way more rainbows.
Thanks for dropping by…
So, you also don’t shave??!?! Why can’t we be neighbors??? This is greatly funny and isn’t that whirlpool weird?
As I tweeted to you: “All power to the Great Unshaven! There should be a fundraising month for hairy legs like Movember. Legstember?”
And by fundraising month, I don’t mean to raise funds for people afflicted by hairy legs.
Although I’m happy to accept any money that comes my way.
I love you. Just saying.
The thought of spending all that time in a shopping place makes me feel like puking.
I’m planning a post on shoes soon that will include the idea of Birkenstocks, but not their actuality, because my teenage daughter gets all the good (read: expensive) shoes in this family.
And I get the “I don’t want to wear a bra anymore” feeling, but that’s a different kind of watermelon issue.
Sending that love right back at ya, BarelyKnit.
Ah, it’s a Love In… Such is the power of the mighty Birkenstock…
i used to make those whirlpools in the pool too!
and…was the fart audible?!
No, it was one of the silent deadly variety that follow you around for a while.
…..or was it smell-ible? No really, all I need to know is were the small children with you, so you could pass it off as one of theirs? But then, there was the issue of the teeny tiny G string…….. LOL funny, really.
Yes. I do believe if I were sniff the trousers I was wearing now, I could still catch a whiff.
And no, there were no small children with me to blame it on. A shame. They do have their uses, after all.
Onion keepers? I never even knew such things existed. Reading your blogs is such an eye opener. Can’t believe that I have managed to reach the age that I have without ever having heard of an “onion keeper”. You can buy those, can you? What…..how do they work? What do they do? Are they all shaped like onions? I’m truly gobsmacked!
Glad to be of service, AEB. They’re a way of keeping onions in the fridge without resorting to that age-old tradition of wrapping them in foil and/or clingfilm and leaving them at the back of the fridge to rot. Instead you can keep them in a special container – often onion-shaped – where they just take longer to rot.
I have a nifty one – called a “Forget-Me-Not” – which I bought at a Tupperware party. Yes, a Tupperware party.
Thanks for the edification (re. onion keepers), though I still can’t believe that such things exist. Another object to add to my, “the environment is going down the toilet because humans manufacture such a load of crap” list. Oh, well (sigh).
You wouldn’t have bought that stuff if it hadn’t been those monster trucks. Stupid monster trucks!