Missoula News

Column: Missoula's Dish

Light as Air

By Danielle Lattuga, 3-04-08

I am not the kind of gal to frequent boutiques and the like. Not that I have an aversion to pretty things. The magpie in me loves sparkles and shimmers. But as a magpie would do, if you get too close, I am likely to start squawking and flapping my wings. Really, when a Shop Girl comes up to me and leans in like we are in cahoots; like a sister or best friend would do; like she’s going to share some secret, and whispers, “Isn’t that just divine? I mean I just love how the neckline falls, and that color is just timeless,” I am always tempted to bark, “Give me break, are you for real?” My elbow twitches slightly as I resist trying to forcefully reclaim my personal space. 

I know, they have a job to do, and the better they do it, the more $ they make. And I admit, at times, I humor them, but only because I am looking for something in particular, and I’m in the mood. Finding what I am looking for, like the dress I dreamed of for my Mexico trip however, does not necessarily translate into an easy sale—the Shop Girl is likely to chafe me, and I’ll remind myself that there is never a dress that I need, as I am walking out the door, empty handed. Have I made my point? Shopping in this type of setting makes me ornery. I own that, and all the reasons why—that have to do with my own neuroses.

Imagine my surprise then, when I found myself softening in just such a scenario. Then tell me what you would have done. 

I was walking downtown, with a friend, and we popped into one of the boutiques that seem to line Higgins Ave. in regular intervals these days. I wanted to find earrings for a friend’s birthday.  Of course, I found about three things that I would love for myself before I even started looking at earrings (sometimes I am such a chick). I was coerced by my companion and Shop Girl to try on a dress that caught my eye. It’s deep hue and luxurious softness made my eyes get blurry, in the way that they glaze over after a sip of well-balanced, old world spicy wine, chased with a square of milk chocolate (yes, I try to love dark chocolate, but I’m from VT, what do you expect?).

The owner was the one who made the sale, and it was clear to me that she is well practiced, because it came so naturally to her. First, she told me it was half-off. Then, as I stood bashfully in the doorway of the dressing room and proclaimed, “It’s too booby.” She was the one that did the “whatever” snort and essentially told me to forget putting a camisole under it, it looked great on me, boobies and all. This was well received with a background chorus of, “But, you can always put a “cami” under it if you want, easily.”

She delivered those two little tidbits without ever once hovering over me or emphasizing all the fabulous qualities of the dress. It was all orchestrated as she breezed around the shop, here and there. She read me, like I try to read my tables. Of course, I am willing to consider the possibility that there wasn’t nearly as much thought put into it as I imply, but then again, she does have a successful business. . . 

Then I decided on the earrings, grabbed the dress and ran to the register before I came to my senses. By that time, owner had left Shop Girl to close up. She rang me up. She charged me full price for the dress. 

I slid the receipt towards me and started to sign. “Oh, sweetie, she told me the dress was half off.”

Shop Girl blushed. She stammered. Her fingers drummed on the counter. “Oh, really? Um, okay.”

She was visibly upset and flustered. I instantly felt badly for her. 

“Okay, well I have to call . . .”

“Yes, go ahead, I know you need to call her and find out. Do what you need to do. No big deal.”

Shop Girl was very apologetic, to me, to my friend, to her employer. There was a simple solution to it, and we were on our way. 

Twenty minutes later, we were walking back down Higgins Avenue and happened upon Shop Girl, looking as distraught as she had earlier. We stopped and smiled at her, as her trembling hand reached out and brushed my arm where the handles of the shopping bag rested. 

“I forgot to put the earrings in the box.”

I giggled and reached into the bag, retrieving the most sweetly wrapped parcel of feminine hues and classic lines. I shook it.  Air.  Light as air.

“I think I just got so flustered. I’ve had a bad day. I wasn’t even supposed to work today.” She rattled on for a minute. 

“Where are you from?” I asked, noticing an accent for the first time.

“Sweden. It’s only noticeable when I get nervous.”

She really was having a bad day, and of course, I had no inclination except to make her feel better.

“You’re in Missoula now, honey.  Don’t worry.” I laughed. It sounded so funny to me, and I half expected the Lollipop Guild to step out of the alley. We arranged for me to return the next day to claim the earrings and she continued on her way home. 

When I went back the following evening, she had them ready for me, re-wrapped them and asked to enter my phone number into the computer; not that this would ever happen again, but just in case they needed to get a hold of me. She was still sweet, and seemingly calmer.

Then her co-worker, who was standing behind her, tried to tell her that she was entering the number the wrong way, and Shop Girl whipped her head around and snapped, “I know, I can just fix it later.”

The haze cleared and the sale was final. 

Can you imagine if I had given my friend a box of air for her birthday? We would have ended up having a good chuckle over it, but what would I have done? Would I have gotten angry?  Nervous? Would I have started squawking and flapping? Would I have pecked Shop Girl’s eyes out? Would I have still seized the opportunity to be nice and make a hard day easier for someone?

What witticism would have come out of my mouth after my dear friend deliberately opened her package, taking care not to tear the paper, and was met with a resounding “Poof.” Nothing.  Nada. 

What would you have said? C’mon.  I need some good wit. You people are smart and funny. Do Share . . .

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