Geek Squad Rule #1: Run From Mom Jeans

Geek Squad Rule #1:  Run From Mom Jeans

Yesterday I went to Best Buy to shop for a computer.  Seeing as how my memory bank is full of irrelevant stuff like the “Gilligan’s Island” theme song, there has been no room in it to learn about new technology.  

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In order to compare computers in the store, I took pictures of them on my iPhone and typed their specs in the “Notes” section of the phone.  Hoping to attract a salesperson's attention, I looked around and spoke to myself out loud..

"When I write in 'Notes,' I wish I could put pictures with it."  

Rajeev, a nice salesman nearby, made the tragic mistake of looking me in the eye.  He was now going to have to engage me in a sales conversation. 

Poor Raj was a fairly new employee, and he had just been thrown under the bus by his “Team Member” pals who scattered at the sight of approaching mom jeans.  

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Rajeev addressed my dilemma bravely.

“Ma’am, this might help you,” he said with a voice of dread, like he was slowly sinking in quicksand.  He pointed to the little jumbled black and white square by the computer descriptions. 

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“Those squares remind me of that game ‘Tetris’ we used to play!” I said excitedly.  

Raj stared at me, silently cursing his Geek Squad agents for leaving him with someone who was alive when Elvis was.

Please note, he did not stare at me like this . . .

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But like this . . .

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“Do you have a QR Reader?” asked Raj, seriously expecting me to know what that was, despite my mom jeans.  “It’s an app.  Here, let me see your phone.”

He searched for a second and found it right next to my app “1000 Glorious Ways to Swear Using Emojis.”  

  
    

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I do not know how either of those apps got there.

He opened the app, “QR Reader” and took a photo of the Tetris-looking box.  Like magic, the picture and specs of the computer I was looking at popped on my screen.   My eyes widened and my mouth dropped open with delight just like when there was only one line on the pregnancy test I took last year.

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I grabbed the phone from Raj and tried it myself.  As Raj babbled on about stuff, I couldn’t get the camera to work.  Raj snapped at me.

You're MISSING it!"

“I am NOT missing your point!” I rebutted, having no clue as to what he was just  babbling.  

“No,” Raj said patiently as he touched my hand softly.  

“Whoa.  Why did he do that?  I know I’m looking nice in my jeans and I just got my roots done.  But Raj, it just couldn’t work.  I’m almost 40. (bwaaahhh ha haaa!)  How am I going to break this to you gently?”

“No, you’re MISSING,” said Raj, interrupting my thoughts.  “You’re aiming at the BAR CODE—not the um . . . Tetris-box.”

“Oh, my bad.”

Raj took a deep breath, implying he wished he was in the break room writing code, as usual, for The Cloud instead of dealing with me.

In a final, desperate attempt to get commission for this freaking sale, he spoke to me slowly on account of me being a moron and all.  

“First, hold the phone over the Tetris-box, NOT the bar code. 

Second, do NOT press the button to “TAKE” the picture!  QR Reader will AUTOMATICALLY take the picture when it's focused, for God’s sake!”

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Why didn’t he say that before?

Well . . . maybe he did.  It’s not my fault I couldn’t concentrate.  While he was babbling, something else was blaring in my mind.

"Here's the story of a lovely lady
who was bringing up three very lovely girls . . ."

Retirement Is Not My Style...Neither Are "Mom Jeans"

I love fall because I can return my “tankinis” (bikinis for tanks) to the back of my closet where they belong.  Cooler temperatures give me a burst of energy.  I ride my bike to get my chin waxed, I do lunges while I watch “Murder, She Wrote,” and occasionally I get bat-crazy and add a little Grey Goose to my prune juice.  

Today I casually looked through the mail—bills, the Victoria’s Secret catalogue that my son reads when I’m not looking, and then...my brand new AARP card.  Buzz. Killer.  

The “R”, of course, stands for “retired.”  That’s like being put out to pasture.  Actually, rollicking alone in a pasture sounds fun, except for dodging the cow patties.  Instead, I dodge the wicked verbal barbs of teenagers, fail to help with math projects about how many meters-per-second Cheetos fall from our balcony, and explain to my pre-teen why those couples in the movie Bride Wars are sleeping in the same bed when they’re not married yet.  

If I were rollicking in a pasture, I wouldn’t have to worry about what I wore.  Clothes shopping is a challenge for someone my age.  I can either shop in the Juniors section where I have to wear a size 37 or go to the dead-woman-walking "Misses" department.  

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I really don’t want to wear high-waisted “mom jeans,” but if I bend over and accidentally “let down my tailgate,” if ‘ya know what I mean,  my kids’ therapy is going to suck my wine budget dry.

I should just accept that I’m at the end of my forties.  Some of my friends need to do the same.  

My friends give me those "bless her heart" looks when I wear my sweatpants and Welcome Back Kotter t-shirt every day, but hons, you’re gonna get thrown off the island in those over-the-knee leather boots.  Save ‘em for the Fifty Shades of Grey party.  Ditto on the 24/7, over-stretched, tennis outfits. Just sayin.’”

Another questionable style element of the “I-actually-saw-Neil-Armstrong-walk-on-the-moon” crowd is Uggs.  They are expensive moon boots which were born ugly in the 70‘s, and after a suede remake, are still Ugg-ly.  Paired with Nike gym shorts, they are the staple of every teenage girl’s wardrobe.  Moms should also be allowed to wear that get-up too, according to no one.   

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  Obviously, a monumental clerical error caused AARP to include me in their Cougar, I mean, Codger Co-op.  I admit I don’t Tweet very well and I only recently learned what hashtags are, but I am hip enough to have heard Psy, the one-hit-wonder Korean pop icon, sing “Gangnam Style.”  My style may scream “AARP,” but the only thing that may retire soon is my Welcome Back Kotter t-shirt.