Follow the yellow brick road all the way to the MOA

The Mall of America has over 500 stores, over 100 food places and its own amusement park all under its roof. A consumer’s paradise. Before moving to Minnesota, I admit I was intrigued by this shopping haven. It was a trip that the women in my family would make annually to do holiday shopping (wait, did I just go all pc?) and once in awhile I would tag along. I was lured in by its tourist attraction quality and became a greedy shopper at specialty stores: A whole store dedicated to socks. A boutique that sold just purses (small town gal, remember). A store for the Olympics. It also didn’t hurt that when I over indulged I didn’t pay taxes on clothes. It was massive. It was impressive. It was a 4 hour drive away and I could stay in a hotel. It was pretty much the coolest place that I bragged to all my friends about because I had an actual latte at Starbucks there.

Now that I am a resident…

I loathe the MOA (yeah, I call it that now). Let me explain. I enjoy shopping, but not with a bazillion people. I enjoy the variety of stores, but not the 7.75 miles I have to walk between each one. I enjoy eating campy mall food, but not while looking over LegoLand that has not been dusted in 5 years. I enjoy the convenience of attached parking ramps, but not the 3 hours it takes circling them to find a spot.

I actually worked there for about 6 months and that may have something to do with the terrible taste it has left in my mouth. Lane Bryant was my employer. It was the 2nd largest store in the company, both in volume and in space. We were only one of 3 LB stores to have actual size 14 mannequins. Both of these facts are forever burned into my brain. It was a long six months that saw many things and solidified my need to get out of retail.

Once in awhile there are some amusing events in the rotunda and I will stop to watch while sipping my café Americano (lattes are complete crap to my sophisticated coffee pallet now). It is usually a kicky dance competition or a chance meeting of the cast of A Prairie Home Companion. But there are some things that lure Queenie and I there because they appeal to our quest for “adventure”. For example, we crowded around the Starting Over life coaches to gain wisdom and an autograph during one of our self improvement phases. And one time we did this:

It began innocently enough. Queenie read somewhere that there was going to be a display of movie memorabilia complete with interactive displays and trivia contests. It sounded right up our dorky ally. We walked among old scripts with director’s notes scrawled across them, costumes from obscure films, and some ancient camera equipment that fed Queenie’s soul. There was a photographer there that could take your picture in front of a green screen and insert it into a variety of movie scenes. This was free, but you had to stand in line for about 2 hours. You could choose from Casablanca, Gone With The Wind, Wizard of Oz etc. I chose Tinman (yeah, that's my adorable face) instead of Dorothy because Dorothy was a little too unrealistic what with her tiny waistline and all. Besides, my face was pretty shiny that day and I felt like the oil can had done a number on my t-zone.

"Oz never did give nothin' to the Tinman that he didn't, didn't already have..."

Queenie chose a still from Casablanca. I can’t post it here for fear of a horse’s head in my bed, but I will tell you Ingrid Bergman’s breasts and my well endowed sister’s breasts do not under any circumstances match up and the photo did not turn out. After standing in line for 2 hours and seeing how good my beautiful mug looked on the Tinman’s body, Q was all prepared to stand in front of the green screen with her cleavage enhancing tank top. She was instructed to stand a certain way so that Ingrid’s body and Humphrey’s arms can be formed around her in that famous “goodbye scene”. I am not sure if the pimply-faced- I am just doin’ this gig to pay for college – kid photographer anticipated a chest the likes of Queenie’s. And I am not sure he even noticed that when the photo spit out of the printer her breasts looked like alien life forms were taking over poor Ingrid Bergman’s sophisticated blazer. Her face however looked fabulous.