(This has absolutely nothing to do with writing.  Not even a weak metaphor.  Just a warning.)

I spent last night at the mall looking for an outfit to wear to Hubbykin's casual hipster office party.  Anyone who knows me in real life knows that I am no casual hipster.  At all.  I ended up with, after much mall angst, a suitable outfit.  But I had a few things I wanted to tell the retailers:

Dear GAP,
I'll admit it.  You've come through for me over the years, jeans-wise.  And I appreciate that.  But why, why, why am I three sizes bigger in your brand than any other store?  Why?

Cordially, Karen

Dear Maurice's,
Haven't stepped foot through your doors since 1997, but you stepped up last night.  Here's a cookie.

Sincerely, Karen

Dear Express,
Really, Express?  Really?!  You're going to create these...
...and not carry the tall size in your stores?  That's cruel.  These are jean perfection.  I love them.  No cookie for you.

Disgruntedly, Karen

Dear NY & Co,
I love you.  From all the stylistically-challenged, accessory-clueless ladies of the world, thank you for making everything matchy-matchy without being annoying.  Just...thank you.

Affectionately, Karen

Dear Every Single Store In The Mall,
Okay.  I get it.  Skinny jeans are in.  But I look like a half-plucked chicken in them, so no thank you.  Praying for this fad to go away.  Right. Now.

Grrrr, Karen

December, it is upon us.


  1. I shopped for jeans on Tuesday. It was incredibly frustrating. Went to almost all the same stores as you. :)

  2. Jeans are slowly becoming the new swim suit for me.

  3. I love it when writers talk about something other than writing. This was fun and I will now find a way to refer to someone or something as a plucked chicken.