THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, July 28, 1995 TAG: 9507270192
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 92 lines
This is the time of year when I normally do a lot of griping, most of it about the weather.
I come from a part of the country, to say nothing of a mindset, where temperatures above 90 degrees should be limited to a maximum of two days out of the calendar year.
One of those days should be the Fourth of July, the date of the other is optional.
So here we are into our bazzillionth day of temperatures approaching the boiling point of tempered steel and I'm not even griping about the heat.
No, sir, I'm griping about people. Mainly store clerks who can't seem to get the idea that I'm a serious shopper.
I'd like to think that it's the heat that's gotten to them, but unfortunately it's not a seasonal thing. Being ignored in a store is something that happens to me on a pretty frequent basis. Part of the reason, I suspect, is that I'm often trying to buy something that market research tells them mature females don't purchase.
Like automobile sound systems for instance.
I tried to buy one of those for Bill's pickup truck last month. Five clerks in one of those giant electronic super stores ignored me as I browsed through the land of AM, FM, tape decks and CD players.
All five were trying to help some guy wearing sandals, cutoffs, a sleeveless T-shirt and eight linear feet of tattoos.
I left, went around to the store's sound installation department and found that I could buy one right there from a nice young man who was smart enough to realize that even people over the age of 35 like to have something to listen to in their vehicles.
While the system was being installed, I decided to do a little browsing in the computer department. Everybody ignored me until I started fiddling with the mouse on an impressive piece of hardware.
A young clerk came racing over, grabbed the mouse (``I'll demonstrate. This one's pretty complicated,'' he lectured me) and proceeded to send the system into the land where mice cease to function and system error messages fill the screen.
``Sure is complicated,'' I agreed, as I pried the mouse from his hand, hit a few keys and got the system up and running again. I walked away with a grin. He walked away mad.
``I'm getting used to being ignored by someone who's too young ever to have heard the old saw about not trusting anybody over the age of 30, but I wasn't prepared for what happened to me in a dress shop a couple of weeks ago.
It's one of the outlets in a small chain where I shop often enough to get advance notice of the annual sale, which is why I was among a dozen or so shoppers waiting in line when the store opened on the first day of the big event.
As each customer entered, she was greeted by a small, older clerk who darted from one to the other welcoming them and offering her services.
Each customer, that is, except for me. She greeted the young women with the great figures and the perfect tans, she greeted the older women with the expensive outfits and the great dye jobs.
Me, she ignored.
I'll be the first to admit that my figure needs lots of work and my hair could benefit from a rinse. I'll also be the first to admit that I prefer pale skin to skin cancer and comfort to style.
I figure if Kmart styles are good enough for Jaclyn Smith, they're good enough for me. And if Barbara Bush feels at ease in plain white Keds (which she does, I know, because I read it in her autobiography) then there's no reason why I shouldn't, too.
Apparently, the dress clerk thought otherwise.
While I filled my arms with clothes I wanted to try, she ran from one to another of the remaining customers, grabbing their selections and whisking them off.
``Want to make sure you have a fitting room,'' she'd call back over her shoulder. ``I'll just put these in one for you to reserve it.''
Eventually, I made my way back without help, found one empty booth and began trying on clothes.
At which point, the same clerk, loaded down with clothes, threw open the door and slammed me in the back of the head.
``Oh,'' she said, truly startled, ``I had no idea you were in here.''
``Or in the store, either,'' I said with enough chill to cool the hot morning.
The sarcasm was lost on her, but by then I had had enough. I put my Jaclyn Smiths back on and left an untried stack of clothes in the dressing room.
Then I took my purse, containing my gold card, my check book with its healthy balance and the few dollars I had in cash, across the street to a discount shoe shop.
I had been looking forward to a few new casual outfits, but I settled instead for a couple of pairs of Keds.
I think Barbara Bush would approve. by CNB