Shopping in Hell (Mazza Gallery)

Yesterday, Mo and I agreed that we were sick of staying in and doing nothing every Sunday, so we decided to do some shopping.

We first drove up to downtown Bethesda to check out the famed Mustard Seed consignment shop. It ended up being a little pretentious for our tastes (the prices were far too high for used clothing, and the people were snooty and ignored us because we weren't "well dressed"), so we moved on. We stopped for pastries at La Madeleine (very tasty), got some uber-expensive price quotes for piercings at the Bethesda Tattoo Company (needless to say, we will be taking our business elsewhere).

Being far too lazy/tired to continue walking around Bethesda looking for stores that struck our fancies (plus my ankle still hurt from when I sprained it last weekend when I quasi-drunkenly stepped off a curb and twisted it), we decided to head back to NW DC and swing by the Mazza Gallery on our way.

Our first obstacle came in the form of the most complicated, convoluted parking garage I have ever seen. It looked like a freaking obstacle course, you know, the kind you see in car commercials with "Professional driver on closed course" written in itty bitty little font at the bottom of the screen. As we slalomed down to level P2, we nearly grazed the roof of Mo's Explorer on the too-low ceilings of the garage, and the low-hanging signs threatened to sever the antenna.

Having carefully memorized the location of our car (to avoid a Seinfeld-like car-loss situation), we proceeded to the elevators.

We browsed at Neiman Marcus, just for the hell of it (as if either of us would spend $20 on a pair of socks), then headed across the street to check out the clearance racks at J. Crew. No luck there—it was unbearably hot in the women's section upstairs, and I found a few men's button-downs that I liked, but even the smalls were a bit on the spacious side. Defeated, we decided to cross the street and go to Hecht's. At this point we were both so tired of shopping that we didn't spend much time browsing the merchandise, though I did buy some much-needed undershirts, and we sniffed all the men's colognes until our nasal passages burned.

We stopped for lunch on our way back to the car (McDonald's; VERY BAD, especially because we ended up watching Supersize Me on TV when we got home) and then ended up in Filene's Basement at Mazza Gallery, sucked in by the lure of low prices. The women's section was backed up with busy-bodied shoppers and their sticky little children, so Mo and I made a beeline for the men's department (we wear a lot of dude's clothes, anyway; so sue us). I found a shirt that I liked, and I needed some jeans, so I picked up a pair and headed for the nearest changing rooms. The nearest changing rooms happened to be in the men's section. I didn't see any employees in the area, so I just ducked into a stall, but before I could close the door, the Changing Room Gestapo appeared. My back faced her. "How many do you have?" she asked. I turned around. "Two." She heard my voice and took one look at my far from meager bosom and said, "You can't change in here." I said, "Why? Because I'm a woman? These are single stalls. No one will see anything." CRG: "You have to go to the women's changing room." Me: "I would have, but I couldn't even find it. Where is it?" CRG: "It's up at the farthest corner of the store. There's always a line, too. Just look at all these open stalls back here. Sorry." Me: "But I'm trying on men's clothes." CRG: "..." Me: "Fine."

Mo and I walked away, smoldering with rage. I dropped my formerly potential purchases unceremoniously on the nearest shelf, and we hightailed it out of the store, never to return again. What a crock!

So I still need a decent pair of jeans, but I believe my next trip will be to TJ Maxx. Fuck you, Filene's!