Containers and Containing Myself

Three words for you people.

The.

Container.

Store.

Thanks to our sweet, merciful Bob, we now have a Container Store. There are few words that appropriately explain my excitement. When I found out they were opening one here, I was more excited than the day I graduated college or the day I got married. It was THAT excited.

LET THERE BE BINS.

Anyway, I was alerted in advance to the fact that the General Manager was someone I knew and did not exactly appreciate. Pepper was also familiar with his existence and, for the same reasons, was not a fan. Regardless, CONTAINERS.

Pepper and I made time to head over there yesterday to get some supplies to entirely redo the file closet at the office. She had already been there twice and had yet to have a run-in with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. My luck dictates that I would not be so, well, lucky, but we chanced it anyway because, well, CONTAINERS.

The store was everything I imagined. I mentally reorganized by whole house with shiny boxes in pretty colors. I Elfa-ed my closet in my head. There was going to be so much fabulous.

SO MUCH FABULOUS.

I tried very hard not to make eye contact with anyone who wasn't Pepper for obvious reasons, and I handled it like a champ. Then, I had a moment of insanity or something because I let my guard down and came face-to-face with him.

DAMMIT.

I pleasantly smiled. We were looked at some kind of shelving unit and we instantly got very, very interested in it and hoped that we looked different enough from the last time he saw us that he wouldn't recognize us. No such luck. As soon as he was done with his conversation, he walked right over to us. I expected the first words out of his mouth to be something along the lines of "Well, hello..." Instead he said (to Pepper):

"Does your husband know you're here?"

She didn't answer.

He repeated it.

"Does your husband know you're here?"

You know, because she needs a fucking permission slip to leave the house.

She just cooly replied that she was working. He looked at her and kind of smirked and said, "Oh, this is work?"

To be fair, he wasn't being a dick at that point. I think it was a genuine question.

"Yeah," I said. "She's my assistant."

He got quiet for a second while he was processing the fact that I needed an assistant because I was busy and successful enough to need an assistant and isn't that weird that I worked for him and he has an assistant too who is probably better than my assistant and...

Okay. I don't have any proof that that was what was going through his head. I can't actually read minds. That train of thought was similar to what I do when my dogs are thinking about something and I assume I can interpret their thoughts.

We finished exchanging unpleasant pleasantries and got done with our shopping stat.

Since that exchange, we have made sure that Pepper has all of her permission slips signed and that her husband gets an itinerary of any time that she does not have a baby attached to her boob so that she is not violating any rules of the June Cleaver womanhood.

Someday, feminism will be a thing and we won't have to worry about this anymore.

OH WAIT.

As always, it's hip to be square (and allowed out!), kids.