Adventures in the Valley

of the Living Dolls

I rode the escalator down into the Valley of the Living Dolls, a land of young and beautiful women in silky blouses and bouncy hair, mostly blond, where the air is a puff cloud, a billowy poof of powdery scents.

It felt like I’d fallen face first into a Parisian boudoir. But this was the Cosmetics Department at Nordstroms. Clearly, I did not belong here.

Every fiber in my body told me to run back up the down escalator and find a hunting and fishing store as quickly as I could. But I fought the urge. I was on a mission. I was duty-bound. I was here to purchase a gift for my wife. So I took a deep breath and, after a sneeze, plunged forward, deeper into the world of lotions and potions, oils and creams.

Let me just say this now: I am not an entire buffoon when it comes to gift-giving for my wife.  I actually enjoy it.  More than once, for instance, I have baked her half a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I have taken her to dinner at my favorite restaurant given her bottles of my favorite wine. And I’ve even surprised her with a ticket to the ball game. She’s not a huge fan, but I always explain things to her. 

I believe that you always receive as much as you give.

Sometimes, however, she has her own ideas about what she wants.  So she drops a hint, which goes something like this:

“It would be nice if someone would buy me a little Such and So for my birthday/Mother’s Day/Christmas/Whatever Day,” she’d say.

Because of the subtlety of her remark, I don’t always recognize it as a hint and I’d find myself agreeing with her out of habit.

“Yes, that would be nice,” I’d say, even though I had absolutely no interest in a little Such and So myself, and I’d return my attention to the Sports section.

Then, as it normally goes, she’d say, “It would be nice if someone like YOU would go down to Dillard’s/Barnes & Noble/Arnold’s Market/What-Have-You Store and buy me a little Such and So for my Whatever Day.”

You know, she didn’t have to spell it out like that. I would have figured it out eventually because after a couple of days, I usually find a map to the store lying out next to my toothbrush.

And sure enough, just the other day, I found the Google map to Nordstrom’s with the name of the Such and So — it was a bottle of a fragrance called Pure Grace.

OK, confession time. The last time I bought cologne it was called Hai Karate and Jade East. And that cologne was for men. I think. Anyway, that was more than 40 years ago, and I knew things would have changed a little since then. That thought only added to my trepidation.

You see, I hate to shop. I’d rather watch a dentist pull your teeth than go to a mall.  I get overwhelmed in such places. If the store doesn’t have bottles of alcohol, cigars, doughnuts or live bait, I’d just as soon stay outside and wait, thank you.

But this was for a worthy cause: to please my wife on Whatever Day. Which is either a noble, loving thing to do or a survival technique.  And I had a map and detailed instructions, so how hard could this be, right?

Nordstrom’s is a huge store, full of women’s clothing and stuff I’d never seen before, in pinks and yellows and Pantones. It was a little like Oz. And after my eyes adjusted, and my nerves returned — which didn’t take more than 10 minutes — I advanced through the double doors and ventured into the store itself.

I followed the path to the escalators, looking left and right for a sign, some direction where to look. I didn’t really expect a flashing sign “Pure Grace! Here it is, you idiot!” but that would have helped. As would a flashing arrow and perhaps a P.A. announcement – “Mr. Marx, the Holy Grail awaits you at the customer service desk.”

None of that happened, of course. I was on my own. And as I grumbled to myself about the state of customer service these days, a miracle happened. A minor miracle, perhaps, but right there at the escalators was a directory.  Amazing.

I scanned it for “Pure Grace.” Nothing. You’d think they’d make these directories more user-friendly, I thought. Then I looked for “Fragrance.” Again nothing. 

I was about to give up — planning to just tell my wife she was sadly misled into thinking something like Pure Grace ever existed — when I saw “Cosmetics” on the directory. OK, worth a try. So I boarded the down escalator and descended into the boudoir.

My first thought down there was, “Yikes!” My second thought was not forthcoming. 

There was, however, someone behind me on the escalator, and I found myself propelled into the land of Smell’ems and Stick’ems, walking haltingly onward, zombie-like, trying to read as much as possible and get my bearings.

There were rows of counters, each an island and manned (a poor, yet ironic, choice of words) by a young person with an airbrushed complexion and a name like Vikki or Tori or Wisteria-Lani.  It was a veritable archipelago of feminine products and estrogen.  

The women, these Vikki-Toris, were so coifed and made up they looked unreal. Life-size Barbies. I wanted to reach out and poke their faces to make sure they were real, but that would have prompted a call to security and forced the poor woman into an emergency two-hour cosmetic rehab session. 

Each of the counters had the name — Estee’ and Lauder and Chanel and Whatever — but none of it made any sense to me. I couldn’t tell if it was the name of the product or the name of saleswoman. I was still scanning for Pure Grace when I arrived at the “Something or Other” counter

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Pure Grace,” I said, and she looked at me as if I were some sort of missionary, a Christian zealot.

I don’t know what she was selling at her counter, but it wasn’t what I was looking for, and she obviously wasn’t buying what she thought I was selling. After a few frozen moments, in which our eyes were locked in a surrealistic exchange of disinformation, she said, “Wha?”

So I explained that it was a cologne, and “… oh, you need fragrances. It’s through here …” she pointed “ … and down that row to the end.”

Then she smiled, and I backed away slowly.

I followed her directions and dove into the Cosmo gauntlet, passing various stations of women fussing with lips and lashes, eyebrows and chin hairs, trying this blush and that shadow, and I eventually found myself facing another woman named Vikki-Tori and another miracle happened. She knew what I was talking about.

“Pure Grace? Yes, that’s part of the Philosophy line,” she said. “Right this way.”

And she led me back through the Cosmo gauntlet, around a corner to a different island counter where she explained to yet another saleswoman, a brunette this time, that I needed assistance. To say the least.

“Hi,” the brunette said. “I’m Vikki-Tori, how may I help you?”

I told her what I was after, and she went right to it, pulling out two bottles of the stuff, one twice as large as the other. The better deal was with the larger one, but I didn’t really know.  

“Does it go bad?” I asked.

She looked perplexed.

“Well,” she said. “Not unless you set it out in the sun for a long time.”

I immediately pondered the likelihood of my wife bringing the bottle on a fishing trip and leaving it on the gunnel of a john boat. Not that likely, I reasoned. You have to put some thought into these things.

“I’ll take the big one,” I said, confidently.

Then Vikki-Tori informed me that the purchase came with a free gift, a plastic pink bag with all sorts of little bottles of things that women put on various body parts.

“Nice,” I said, not knowing what any of it was for but trying to sound appreciative.   

I handed her my credit card, and she asked if my purchase were a gift. It was one of those questions that confused me. Did she think I was buying this stuff for myself? Did she want to know if I had a girlfriend or wife? Was she hitting on me? Was I delusional?

“Yes,” I said.

“Would you like it wrapped?”

Again, confusion flooded my brain. Wrapped, as in a bag? Rapped, as with a hammer?    

“Gift-wrapped?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” God, I had to get out of here.

The transaction was completed. Vikki Tori handed me a bag with my purchases in it, and I withdrew, slowly but steadily, shaken not stirred, a controlled retreat.

All in all, it was a successful excursion. My wife was delighted when I surprised her on the morning of Whatever Day. And as I basked in the glow of her appreciation, I took a moment to reflect on the perils of that shopping experience. 

It was worth it, I concluded. But just the same, next time I think I’ll get her a nice shiny fishing lure.

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