I hate shopping.  I just really do.

            The idea of buying a dress, let alone an expensive one that I will only wear once, to a stupid banquet that I don't even want to go to, and would greatly prefer to take a midnight trip to a drunken dentist.  I am not exactly known as one who likes to throw on this season's hottest formal gown and head off to various little soiree's, thrown by the town's elite, where we will all toast the night away with fancy champagne, eating toast points with caviar, and busting out choreographed waltzes as though we had leapt off the screen of some movie that would have you believe that somehow everyone in the free world just has it in their second nature to dance, Fosse style.

            I have come to this godforsaken mall armed with a small stack of torn out pages from various fashion magazines, gathered by my Gwenny, each one adorned with a fabulous looking dress that she seems to think would look less than hideous on me.  Okay, so she said I would look "Fucking gorgeous!" but I can't seem to pull that kind of enthusiasm off.  Before she left back for New York, the day after the Bizzaro World Birthday Party, we had lunch together where we dissected the previous days numerous occurrences, and she passed me the dress suggestions.  She is kind of fabulous. 

            I am still shaking my head about all that.  It is amazing to have spent so much time knowing I was being hated, but for reasons I would have never guessed in a million years.  Catherine has called a few times since Sunday, and filled us in on all the fun the kids are having, and the fun things they have been doing together.  Going to the zoo, aquariums, museums, and buying lots of things that no child should be without, such as a train set that is big enough for the kids to ride on that will be shipped in a few days before they get home.  For once, I don't even care.  In fact I am wondering if it could haul my big butt around the tracks a few times...  Last night, Catherine called my cell phone to let the kids say goodnight, and before she hung up, she told me that Richard was thrilled to have his grand babies there and that he was acting happier and more loving than he had in years.  She actually thanked me for it. 

            Of course this morning, when she called around seven to ask me if it was Oliver or Abigail that is allergic to peanuts, and the call woke me up, she did say, "Oh, well, I bet it is just lovely to be able to sleep as late as you want!  I wish I had that kind of free time!"  I suppose old habits die hard.  While it has been my instinct for many years to become instantly irritated at such a remark, this time, I just smiled and filled her in that indeed, Ollie is the peanut victim.  Sensing my tone, she did chuckle for a second and then told me to get back to sleep and enjoy my time off.

            I am liking the New Catherine.  The whole situation is very much better late than never.

            I am not, however, liking shopping for a damn dress.

            At my third store, after being eyeballed like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when she tried to shop the first time and was given the stink eye by the sales people, I finally decided that the next dress I saw that looked even somewhat normal on me, I would buy and pretend to like.  I perused the racks, and when I actually started picking up items to hold up to myself, I fear I scared one of the clerks that I might rub my unfasionableness upon the fancy cloth and she came trotting over.

            "Is there something I can help you with?" she inquired.

            "Um, I am just sort of neeeding a dress, for this banquet thing."  I muttered, clutching my crumpled stack of magazine pictures in my sweaty, unpolished hand.

            "This dress is really for someone with more of a,” she took the dress out of my hands, rather forcefully I might add, "Defined bust line."

            "I'm sorry," I was annoyed, "But did you just say I have small boobs?"

            "Not so much small...” she spoke, "As located lower than the dress is built for."

            Oh, good.  So they aren't small per say, they are just saggy and disgusting. 

            "Oh well, that shouldn't be much of an issue,” I smiled, "I doubt they would get in the way, I usually just keep them tucked into my socks."

            So that store didn't work.

            I sat in the food court and stared at the mall directory and picked at a cinnamon roll that was as large as my head, and chugged at a coffee of equal stature.  I was beginning to give up all hope and started planning a way to believably fake my own death so as to avoid the stupid ball, for which I would have no help from Fairy Godmother's or cute singing mice.  Stupid, selfish, mice.  Just as I was about to give up all hope, my eyes came to rest on a store called "The Cat's Meow" and it was listed under apparel.  Hmm.  I felt it sounded promising.  Witty, involving cats, made me think of Murphy armed with a magic wand, which I think would kick the ass of the singing mice anyway.  So I took an unnecessarily large bite of my cinnamon-y goodness, grabbed my coffee, and set off.

            Located in the corner of the mall, The Cat's Meow, was a fine clothing shop that had actual normal people working in it. Some cute, young, college student named Chloe stepped right up to me as soon as I walked in the store's entrance.  A spunky little thing, she was dressed decidedly hip for an upscale boutique, with low rise black hip huggers, and a corset style camisole.  Her look completed with a black leather wrist cuff, and stick straight naturally black hair that allowed her alabaster skin to pop.  She was insanely beautiful which would normally intimidate the shit out of me, but her face was so genuinely inviting and cheerful that for the first time in the history of my shopping for clothes, I actually felt comfortable.

            "You look like you could use a hand!"  She smiled reassuringly.

            "Is it obvious?"  I winced.

            "Well, unless you've had a ton of plastic surgery, and a platinum card, sometimes it is hard to find what you need from a lot of stores."  She smiled and led me towards the middle of the store where there were racks of divine dresses that I was too afraid to touch.  "Is there a specific event you are dressing for?  Or do you have something in mind that you are looking to find?"

            I was so shocked at finding a nice person in the Mall Of Divine Snobbery that, with a look of awe plastered on my face, I could only manage to silently hand her my handful of mangled dress photos.

            For the next few moments, she flitted about the store in a peppy flourish, before hanging an armload of dresses up in a dressing room.  "Here, give these a try!"  She smiled, "I think you'll really like at least a few of them!"

            I followed her instructions, and by golly, if she wasn't right that.  Not only did the dresses fit me in a way that didn't make me feel like a disproportionate freak, but I must say, they actually looked quite nice! 

            Not content to allow me to fend off myself critiques, she insisted that I come out with each dress, so she could see for herself.  It was a bizarre version of Barbie Dolls it felt, but she was so sweet, and never once did she look at me with judgmental eyes, which I am pretty sure I love her for.

            In the end, after modeling eight dresses, we both voted for a beautiful, black dress with spaghetti straps, and a hint of cascading flowers that trailed along a slit that rose up dangerously high to the left thigh.  Not something I ever imagined myself in, and maybe she had trick mirrors or something, but dang it, Gwen was right.  I looked fucking gorgeous!

            Hey!  I can pull off the enthusiasm!

            Little Miss Chloe helped me complete the ensemble with a stunning pair of sky high black pumps, and a delicate silver chain to wear on my neck.  When we were all done, and I was heading out of the store with my new purchases, I stopped to thank her and she gave me a little hug.

            "You are going to be a knockout at the party, Ellie."  She gushed.

            Who knew fairy godmothers could be twenty year old college kids!

            Just as I was about to walk out the door, I stopped short and realized I was not going to be able to get away with my usual makeupless mug with a dress that pretty, and I shared my concerns with my new shopping guru.

            "Oh, you know what you should do!"  she was chipper, but not in the way that usually made me want to smack the snot out of people, "You should go to one of the makeup counters and have one of the sales ladies do up the makeup like you would for the banquet, and they can show you exactly how to do it!  Then you know exactly what to buy, and exactly how to use it!"

            "Chloe," I stared, star struck, "You don't by any chance turn into a pumpkin at midnight do you?"

            "Um, I don't think so?"  She grinned.

            I chuckled, "Hey, thanks so much for your help!"

            With a newfound confidence, I set off to the nearest department store, makeup counter, my intent being Chloe's fabulous plan.  Sadly, once I left the safety of The Cat's Meow, I was all too quickly reminded of the fact that I was in a place where it was stamped on my forehead that I did not belong.

            I sidled up to a makeup display and began scanning eye shadows.

            "May I help you?" a snooty voice rang.  Oh dear.

            "Um, yeah, I have a fancy thing to go to this weekend, and I was told that I could come here and you could sort of show me how to do my face up?"

            After a long, looooooong silent stare, she said, "Certainly.  Follow me."  There was no emotion in her voice, just even words, and not a single facial expression beyond annoyed.  Eep.

            I was led to a chair near a few other sales women, and my snooty gal traded me off to another equally stuck up chicky.

            "Hello.  My name is Nicole, I will be your Cosmetics Styling Agent today."  Gee, she seemed not at all put off by my appearing in front of her.  "Please, tell me the color of the outfit you will be wearing for your event."

            "Um, black?"  Not sure why I posed it as a question, but I was feeling quite awkward.

            "Alright.  Please sit back, and relax, you are in good hands."  Her disdainful tone did not bring on the relaxing.

            She turned me away from the mirrors on the counter, and began shellacking all kinds of products on to my face.  I wanted to worry, or at the very least see what she was doing, but I was afraid that if I asked, she would stab my in the eye with a freshly sharpened lip liner.

            Instead, I took the time to reminisce over the last three days.  I haven't heard from Patrick since Abby's party.  I am hoping that maybe he has finally gotten the freaking point and is moving on.  I, myself, am most pleased to be putting this whole fiasco behind me.  What a crazy summer.  Soccer camp ended the day before Abby's birthday, with a big game between a rival school's camp.  All the same mommies were there, and even a lot of daddy's dropped by.  Derek wasn't able to stay for the whole game, but he did drop by for about the first hour before he had to run back to work, which at the time I thought was brilliant because then he wouldn't have a chance to actually interact with Patrick, but as we all know, the party really killed that glimmer of hope.  I was with Catherine, and Ollie and avoided Patrick like the Infidelity Plague. 

            And now, the banquet will be the last time I have to see him, again save for those awkward run in's while we are out and about.  I can almost guarantee people will see me slinking down the grocery store isles, Mission Impossible Style, hoping to never bump into him accidentally, but instead avoid him by doing perfectly normal things, like hanging from the ceiling, or in the worst case scenarios, dropping smoke bombs to sneak out undetected. 

            A perfectly rational plan, I must say. 

            I must make a note however to run to the nearest Spy Store to stock up on all the equipment I will most certainly need.

            With the promise that the worst is behind us, it has been wonderful embracing the rekindled romance between Derek and I.  And let me just add that a newly re-hot for each other couple, with their house empty and child free for the first time in almost six years, all adds up to all kinds of delightful activities including, but not at all limited to sex on the couch, in the kitchen, in the hallway after not making it to the bedroom, and one failed attempt at sex in the shower which might have worked had it not been for the small puddle of body wash that sent our precariously balanced bodies slamming into the glass shower door which flew open and caused us to crash into the cold tiled floor.  Actually banged my hip up pretty good, but for the last two days I have been walking around proud of the giant bruise on my right butt cheek and wish I could brag to more people about my first sex injury.

            Derek is planning on taking a day or two vacation next week before the kids get home, so that he and I can engage in some romantic excursions.  A matinee, an spa day perhaps, a museum, it doesn't matter, it's just the idea that he and I are going to go on little dates together that has me all excited.  Slightly more fun to do on a whim like back when we first met, the joys of not having to plan around bedtimes and baby sitter availability. 

            Derek once again campaigned for a ticket to the banquet, toying with the idea of a nice dressed up evening out, but was once again shot down by Madam Natalie and her Nazi-esque regime.  So, Derek insisted that I soldier on in my fancy garb to the banquet, but that before the kiddos get back, that one night, I would don the dress once more, and he would put on *gasp* a suit, and we would go to a fancy place that demands reservations and that serves teeny entrees with three bites of food that cost seventy-two dollars a plate.

            I have to admit that there is something undeniably exciting about getting to fall back in love with one's husband.  Sure, it was a bastard to get here, with a slew of issues and interferences that I would love to say I could have lived without, but the fact is that it has changed things so dramatically for the better, that I finally understand the whole notion of taking the good with the bad.  Sure, we could both beat ourselves up with the mistakes we have made, but why would we want to do something crazy like that!?

            Suddenly, Nicole abruptly swung me around towards the mirrors once more.

            "Marvelous, you look simply marvelous."  She said words that would suggest some sort of enthusiasm, but yeah, not so much.  Where do these women learn these lifeless even tones?

            I would have loved to trace the roots of their bitchiness, but instead my mind was busy trying to make out the insanity that was my face in the mirror before me.

            There was no marvelous.  Instead, there was so much powder and foundation caked on my face, I felt my cheeks weighted down, and gave me the appearance of a dead body at a funeral.  A neon pink blush was streaking its way from almost the corners of my mouth, past the apples of my cheeks, and all the way to my hair line where the vicious lines finally faded.  My lips were covered in a thick, sticky lipstick and gloss that perfectly matched the shade of blush that was tearing across my face.  My eyes.  Dear GOD, my eyes, were covered in a hideous shimmery, gold shadow that went straight up to my eyebrows. 

            I looked very much like the reason that disco died.

            My jaw dropped, my blood pressure rising, I shot around to face the butcher who had done this to my face, but just as I opened my mouth to scream, but was interrupted by a swarm of other Cosmetics Styling Agents who began gushing over Nicole's job well done.

            "Amazing!" said one.

            "Right out of a magazine!"  Trilled another.

            "Nicole!  Your best work ever!"  Jesus, what did she do to the other people that weren't her "best"!!!

            They all turned and stared at me, waiting, practically demanding my pleasurable reaction.  I was caught, between a hideous, neon pink and glittery gold rock, and a hard place that consisted of a mob of Cosmetic Styling Agents.  When their anticipatory gazes became more intense, to the point I felt I was about to be attacked by pointy make up brushes and eyelash curlers, I broke under the pressure.

            "OH!  It's wonderful!"  I cried with far too much gusto.  "Just wonderful!"

            Their faces all relaxed into smiles and accolades rang out to Nicole, who was lapping them up like a dehydrated puppy at a puddle.

            "Well, thank you for all your amazing help!"  I cheered through a strained voice and started gathering my bags to run the hell out of there.

            "Wait!"  Nicole snapped, "You will need the products I used to be able to recreate the look for your party!"

            Oh, sweet, holy, hell.

            "Um, well, I," I stuttered, "It's just that...”

            "Oh, I see, you just wanted a free makeover."  She responded curtly. 

            She crossed her arms and began staring me down and was quickly surrounded by her associates who assumed the same menacing positions.

            My mind raced with all the possible excuses I could have for not wanting to purchase all the god awful crap she had slathered on my face, but let me just cut to the chase and inform you that I folded like a cheerleader after her third wine cooler on a date with a the quarter back in the back seat of his El Camino. 

            Instead of running for the hills, I instead took the chicken route and found myself breaking out my charge card that rang up 147 dollars and 96 cents of unholy compacts and tubes that I am fairly positive I will go home and burn in a ritual sacrifice.

            Those evil bitches.

            I gathered up my shopping bags and darted out of there, heading for the hills.  Or the parking lot for accurately.  But as I flew from the store out into the giant corridor that led to the real world, I wasn't watching where I was going and slammed into someone which sent my bags flying and me falling flat onto my ass with an unfairly loud thud.

            "Oh my gosh!"  I squeaked, embarrassed beyond all belief, and started scrambling around on the floor to pick up my purchases that had been strewn over a good ten feet of floor.  I looked up to see my victim, and almost threw up.

            "Well, Ellie, you are just the picture of grace aren't you."  An irritated Natalie snapped.

            "Um, I was in a hurry, I wasn't paying attention."  I mumbled.  "Really, I am sorry."

            "Whatever, Ellie."  She sighed, very much miffed, "Although I must say, this new look of yours is a vast improvement.  It's nice to see you putting in a little effort for once."

            It would have been a lot easier for me to return a scathing remark had I not been on my hands and knees grabbing all my newly purchased crap off the cold, hard floor.

            Once I had managed to wrangle everything back into bags and peeled myself off the ground, I conceded the battle and opted to scurry away, head hanging in shame.

            "Again, sorry about that."  I grumbled as I made my escape.

            "I'll see you at the banquet!" she called after me, "I'm sure that at the very least, you'll make things entertaining!"

            So now, here I sit in my car, taking deep breaths and cursing the day that woman was conceived.  I am accompanying this by slamming my head repeatedly into my steering wheel which is causing my horn to emit a short, sharp honk with each noggin punch.

            I hate that woman.

            And I reeeeeeaaaaaaally hate shopping.

            Yeah.