Don’t stop for snacks…
My husband and I were invited to multiple weddings. I needed to buy another dress. Shopping for a new dress evoked many feelings. None were pleasant. Dresses were styled for anorexics, hookers, or Bubbas. If a woman between the ages of thirty and sixty happened to find a dress that didn’t make her look chunky, slutty or old, she wouldn’t have shoes to match.
I saw a dress, picked my size, and it fit. With a coupon, I paid under thirty dollars and had shoes. It could’ve been a normal woman’s dream dress shopping scenario, except it was me who bought the dress.
While getting ready on the day of the wedding, I looked at the tag, made in the Philippines. But the tag itself was made from responsible sources.
“It’s bad enough products are made overseas by workers existing on substandard wages, but the company gave more thought to the paper tag than to the people who made their product.” I said.
“We’re leaving in twenty minutes.” Hubby said.
“I don’t feel good about my dress.”
“You look stunning. Hurry up.”
I buckled my shoes from Indonesia. Indonesian workers gave up bathroom breaks to make quotas. I now felt like crawling under my blanket, but it was made in China in a factory that spewed toxins into the air I breathed and into the ocean where my food came from. At least I no longer worried about death coming from nuclear holocaust.
“Quit poking. Let’s go.”
“I need makeup.” I didn’t look at the label. I’d bet it was tested on puppies.
“Meet me in the car.” The car was on its third recall. Nothing like bailing out a big company so they could sell you junk.
“You seem out of sorts. Your blood sugar’s probably low. We’ll stop for snacks.”
My husband was smart enough to not call me cranky or to not blame my mood on female cycles or to suggest overpriced pharmaceuticals, lest he die.
“Grab me a man snack.”
Man snack equals pork rinds. We’re too middle class for me to let him acquire heart disease. I picked peanuts for him. Not too unhealthy and a product of the USA. I chose trail mix.
Again, I chose poorly. The trail mix was a world tour. The papaya, pineapple, and bananas came from Thailand and the Philippines, the cashews came from Vietnam, Brazil, India, and Indonesia, and the apricots came from Turkey. The raisins were from USA, but also from South Africa, Pakistan, Mexico, Chile, and Uzbekistan. The guy who harvested the bananas probably netted six dollars a week and the oil companies a gazillion times that to get the fruit here.
“What?” Hubby asked when noticing my frown.
“Ten out of ten people couldn’t find Uzbekistan on a map, the trail mix tastes like cardboard, and the hem of my dress is frayed already.”
When we arrived, Hubby said, “You need beer.”
But guess what? The brews on tap weren’t owned by an American company anymore. Who could get blissfully hammered wondering how many people lost jobs in that transaction?
“I feel like running barefoot and naked through the backyard and screaming.”
“Except the neighbors would call the police and have you arrested.”
Then I’d spend time in an ineffectual system of reform where upon release I’d again run barefoot and naked….
“What’s eating you, dear?” I married a brave man.
“Integrity doesn’t mean a damn thing in today’s society.”
Hubby went to the bar and came back with a soda glass. “Here, Jack Daniels, Lynchburg, Tennessee. They even make their own barrels. Their motto is, “Every day we make it, we’ll make it the best we can. Consume responsibly.”
“Before the next wedding, I’ll learn to spin cotton or knit a dress. We’ll stop at the farmer’s market for snacks.”
“Or I’ll have you committed and send a card.”
That might work if they don’t make me wear a dress and serve trail mix in the slammer. Cheers.
Published in Funny Times-October 2014