WHY CAMOUFLAGE SHIRTS MAKE ME VIOLENT

My kids are always accusing me of making a scene. 

Hold that thought for a few minutes while we go shopping at the outlets.  Spoiler Alert:  Before either of my sons gets too excited about this, I want to submit this disclaimer that no gift was bought.  I repeat, NO PRESENT MADE IT OUT OF THE STORE.

I head up to Merrimack to visit a childhood friend.  We try to get together a few times a year and do weird stuff like bowling (bumper lanes) or eating exotic Colombian food (yum) or photographing random outdoor art hidden around downtown Nashua (cool) or encountering a soft-shell crab just sitting all alone on a bulky roll (disturbing).  Today's mission is to hit the Merrimack Outlet Stores along with countless throngs of pre--pre-holiday shoppers.

I have one quest and one quest only: Find long sleeve camouflage Under Armour shirts.  And find them, I do, but the store only has hunting camouflage and not military camo, so I debate the purchase.  I need one large and one extra-large, one for each son.  The styles are not that great and the selection is even worse.  No XL, so I grab the one large and head to the register. 

The line is not too long, but there seems to be a problem on register 1 -- the cashier made a mistake, and now the woman who made the purchase must stand in another line at register 3 and await the young manager.  Meanwhile, Dopey (and when I say that, I'm offering this poor chap a helluva lot more IQ points than I truly believe he deserves) is ready to ring me through on register 2. 

After fumbling with the shirt, he decides there's no tag in it.  I explain to him that there is a tag, but it is way down inside near the armpit.  Rather than look inside the shirt, he squishes it over and over again, getting his hand oil and general gross cooties all over the shirt.  Nope, he declares the shirt is tag-less as he has completely felt it up like the uninitiated virgin schoolboy he appears to be. 

He fumbles for the better part of 90 seconds and finally decides to pretend he's entering some kind of number.  The price rings up … at a mark-up of 50%.  He wants me to pay 150% of the store-marked cost of the shirt. 

Now, I'm no rocket scientist, and it has been a while since I was an assistant manager at the fabric store … and the book store … and the donut shop … I'm pretty sure that I have more managerial experience than that kid probably has in his entire gene pool.  I am also reasonably certain that when a store offers a store-wide SALE, the prices shouldn't be ringing in at 50% above the original asking price, so I refuse to hand over an additional $20 for no reason. 

"That's the wrong price," I say calmly (for at this point, I really am still calm … yes, my children, I tell the truth).

Dopey just stands there, dumbfounded, pupils devoid of reaction, while he kneads my purchase like a drugged cat.  I am actually a little concerned about how close he and the spandex are planning on becoming before I bring that shirt home.  His lips part, his mouth falls open, and he drools out the words, "Did you get this from clearance or from the rack in the back?"

Well, then.  If I say clearance, I may get an extra discount.   If Dopey moved his skinny ass, he could go look up the price himself.  I answer, "Rack in the back."

He doesn't move.  He stares at the balled up shirt and continues to maul the fabric between his palms.  In turn I stare at him staring at the shirt.  After about thirty seconds, it becomes obvious that we are in a silent pissing match.  "They're on the RACK.  In the BACK." 

Hint, hint.  Wink, wink.  Nudge, nudge.  Ya know what I mean, ya know what I mean?

Nothing.  Just keeps touching the spandex.

"That's okay.  I'LL go get another one for you," I interject.  Now, surprisingly enough, I have not lost my patience nor my temper yet.  There is a long line forming behind me, and I want to be quick.  I run to the rack, grab a tagged shirt just exactly like the large one I am trying to buy, but I grab a small because that's all they have left in that style.  I am there and back in about twenty seconds.  I'm not kidding.  As a matter of honesty in reporting, it might have been closer to twelve seconds.

When I come back, Dopey is still touching the shirt, but he is standing back a bit with a blank expression on his face while Dumb-Ass-ia, the young chickie manager in a suit jacket who was just at register 3, is now ringing on his register.  I hand Dopey the shirt, and he stammers something about having to wait.

Wait?  Really? Didn't I, the customer, just have a transaction in progress? Didn't I, the customer, just wait in line?  Didn't I, the customer, just ask Dopey to make a price correction?  Didn't I, the customer, just go do Dopey's job for him? And you want me to … say what?  You want ME to wait?  Again?  Still?

Dumb-Ass-ia has decided to fix on register 2 the mistake the cashier made on register 1 for a customer who is in line for register 3.  Now, normally I have no problem with managers handling returns or mistakes, but not in the middle of my paying transaction.

"Here's the money," I say, holding out the crisp, green bills, knowing exactly where this is going.

"I … uh … I mean … uh … you'll have to …. um…. wait…" 

I look at Dopey, then I look at Dumb-Ass-ia, then I look back at Dopey.  I shove the cash back into my wallet, zip my purse shut, and say calmly, for still I am not yet pissed off, "Never mind."  With those two words, I turn away from the counter and head out of the store.

When I reach the door, though, that's when my blood boils.  I meet my friend outside and we start to walk away.  Suddenly I stop.  "No," I say to my very patient pal, "I have something to say."

Back into the Under Armour outlet store I go and make a beeline for the registers in the middle of the store.  Dumb-Ass-ia is still blocking my transaction-in-progress on register 2 while trying to figure out the mistake that some other dolt working there on register 1 managed to screw up that she promised the customer she would correct on register 3. 

I take my glasses off the top of my head and point them right into Dumb-Ass-ia's face.

"You," I say evenly but firmly, "are incredibly RUDE.  I am in the middle of a purchase.  I waited in line, then waited again for a price check, then had to go get the tag myself, and you interrupt my transaction.  That's unacceptable.  That's rude."  She babbles something in my general direction, but I have already shown her my back.  The glasses remain in my hand, and I walk out of the store for good this time.

I don't scream, I don't yell, and, best of all, I don't even swear at her and tell her what a stupid douch-bag c**t asshole bitch skank she must be.  But I could not and cannot let it ride.  It's inherently wrong.

And there is no way on Earth I am buying that very last size large long-sleeve camouflage Under Armour shirt no matter what price they ticket it after watching Dopey all but lose his nuts over the thing.  At this point I am more than pissed off; I am skeeved out.

So, son, I'm sorry.  I don't buy you the damn shirt.  And kids, I'll openly admit right here that you really cannot take me anywhere because I will make a scene if someone is molesting the clothing I'm trying to buy and then someone completely different makes me wait and look like the total jerk while the line compounds behind me through no fault of my own.

Besides, a little drama goes a long way to whet the appetite.  My friend and I decide to eat Italian food then hit the free brewery tour afterward, so we end up winning in the long run.  The money I don't spend on the shirt goes toward a cheesy picture of us together in front of a giant plastic replica Clydesdale at the brewery, a memento that we simply must have for nostalgia. 

The photograph is of two of us, smiling away after one small Stella Artois and before a few more full-sized brewski samplers.  I'm pleased to admit that's the only scene I want to make today.