More Entertainment Columnists

• J.A. Montalbano: At the movies, having the time of your life
• Lisa Abeyta: Snippy swimmer deep-sixes my trip to pool
• Tribune staffers pin their hopes on these fall films

MOST RECENT TRIB STORIES

• ABQTrib.com to remain available
  08:48 a.m., February 25, 2008
• Congressman is indicted
  08:37 a.m., February 23, 2008
• Series of attacks target Green Zone
  08:36 a.m., February 23, 2008
• Iran is defying U.N., agency says
  08:35 a.m., February 23, 2008
• Waterboarding approval probed
  08:34 a.m., February 23, 2008

TRIB IN THE BLOGOSPHERE*

• Ty Murray Invitational thrills fans in Albuquerque
• Is Rome Burning?
• Ominous Skies
• The Road to Invalidation
• Albuquerque company participates in “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition”

*Note: The Tribune does not create and is not responsible for the blogosphere's headlines and stories. These links to blogs talking about ABQTrib.com are automatically generated. Use them at your own risk.

STORY TOOLS

• E-mail story
• Comments
• iPod friendly
• Printer friendly

SHARE THIS STORY [?]

I'm at the mall finishing up some last-minute returns - yes, I said returns. "Why bother to wait until after Christmas to take stuff back?" is my motto.

I have one more stop to make, and I'm hungry. My hunger has nothing to do with being at the mall. This could be Home Depot, and I still would be hungry.

I'm on a diet. I'm always hungry.

But at least Home Depot doesn't have a food court. Being hungry at the mall is dangerous for dieters.

I walk past the food court on my way to return a sweater that my dear husband has very carefully told me looks a wee bit less than ravishing on my slightly slenderized figure. It was brave of him, and I don't think I've yet to thank him properly.

Poor husbands cannot ever win this one. If they fail to tell us our purchase makes us look terrible, and actually let us leave the house in it, they're in trouble.

"How could you let me go out looking like that?" we accuse once we've come to our senses. But if our spouse actually tells us that perhaps our choice of clothing is not the most flattering? They're in even deeper hot water. I used to wonder why couples who'd been married for years got to the point that they just seemed to grunt at each other, but now I understand. A grunt is safe.

"Do you like my new dress, honey?"

Grunt.

"It makes me look skinny, doesn't it?"

Grunt.

"Do you like the color on me?"

Grunt.

You get the idea. I'm sure it's the reason why many marriages make it for the long haul.

So, anyway, I'm now copacetic to the fact this frilly sweater is not quite the best way to show off my lost pounds. I'm on a mission to return it to its rightful owner. My stomach grumbles, but I don't even look in the direction of the food court. I keep my eyes focused on the goal.

Once inside the little boutique, I stop to handle a new blouse near the entrance. Shaking my head, I pull away before I make another purchase that will need returned. A salesclerk sees me and seems to think a few more dollars' commission might be coming her way. She approaches with a big smile.

"Lovely color, isn't it?" she asks, pulling the blouse from the rack. "What size can I put in the dressing room for you?"

She pretends to size me up and underestimates - always a smart move. "You must be a size 10."

I laugh. "I haven't been a size 10 this side of a decade," I tell her. "I'm actually here to return something that didn't work out."

Her smile fades faster than a spray-on tan. She realizes she's not going to earn any commission and is sweating bullets to see if she was the original salesperson who will now lose money from my visit today.

She walks briskly back to the counter and asks, "Do you have a receipt?"

I resist my urge to be flippant and simply hand it to her. It's hard. Flippant is my middle name.

"What is wrong with it?" she asks.

"It didn't suit me," I say. I leave out the part about my husband and marriage and all the rest. She doesn't seem interested.

She looks the sweater over carefully, eyeing me from time to time. What does she think I did? Cleaned my house in it and then decided to bring it back with the tags still on?

"It hasn't been worn," I tell her. "Still brand new."

"What was wrong with it again?" she asks. I'm beginning to think she's in training for the police or CIA.

"It makes me look like a big, fat red sausage," I tell her, loud enough for the other patrons to hear.

That stops the questions. I see another clerk stifling laughs, and the poor woman trying to complete my transaction now struggles between letting loose with a guffaw and keeping her composure. I am impressed she manages to credit my account without laughing in my face.

As I pass by the food court on my way back, I sniff the wonderful aroma of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. I really want some. It's been a hard afternoon, and that last return was embarrassing. I could use some comfort food.

Instead, I think of how terrible I looked in the sweater. I will not look like a sausage in the next sweater I buy. I dig my keys out of my purse and flip open my cell phone to call my husband.

"I'm finished at the mall," I tell him. "What would you like for supper? Did you like the turkey tetrazzini casserole I made?"

He grunts.

It's a good sign our marriage is going to make it for the long haul.