Shit Happens at White House Black Market


Shit happens to me on a somewhat regular basis. Just the other day, I needed to partake in some retail therapy so I headed to my favorite store, White House Black Market. Typically I don’t shop, like ever, and when I do it is because I have an event which lures me into the store. So you can imagine how pissed I was that I was surpassing my beloved nap for a clothing store.

I entered the great WHBM and casually scanned the room. I didn’t really need jeans, and I wasn’t going anywhere that required a nice dress or jacket. My hands flitted across fabrics, admiring multiple sweaters and even though the outside temperatures were still hovering in the mid fifties I knew winter was on it’s way to kick my ass.

I carefully selected three sweaters, jeans even though I didn’t need them because I was there for therapy, and a few long sleeve shirts – ok fine I got one in every color because once I find a shirt I like I buy them all. This season I am wearing black, grey, white, and maroon and loving them all. The lovely sales girl set me up in a dressing room while I continued to circle the store.

Realizing I had exhausted my options I headed to the dressing room. I removed my boots, and shirt and began trying on my new winter wardrobe. That was when I first noticed it, the smell of shit. It didn’t take long for the smell to permeate throughout my small space. Where was the stench coming from, I wondered. I was pretty damn sure I hadn’t shit myself, yet I couldn’t shake the smell as I continued to try on piece after piece. Finally I looked down at my shoes and there was the culprit…dog shit…because of course.

The smell was so strong, but I didn’t want to end my shopping (and I was half naked), so what’s a girl to do? I took stock of my situation and decided the only option was to remove the dog shit…in the dressing room. I took a look inside my purse and sighed with relief when I spotted the tiny packet of tissues. Grabbing a pen from my bag I took to that shit like no tomorrow, scraping it off onto the tissue. Luckily it was hardened so it came off rather easily, except for some rogue pieces but I was more concerned about the larger ones. The smell made me gag as I continued with my Macgyveresque maneuver.

“How’s it going in there?” Called the sales girl who was probably thinking I was stealing a few articles of clothing since I had been MIA for a bit of time.

“Oh fine!” I cheerfully reported as I took the pen to the ridges of my boot while holding my breath from the atrocious stench. It was at this point that I realized I should have just let it be. The removal of the dog shit was causing the whole tiny space to smell worse than it had before I attempted my surgical procedure, but I was to far along to turn back now. I had to persevere, I hunkered down and frantically continued with my shitastrophy.

“Do you need any other sizes?” She asked, no doubt becoming more concerned at my lack of progress, or maybe she smelled the shit wafting through the heavy fabric curtain and thought I was having some gastrointestinal issues.

“No, I’m fine. Just finishing up this last piece!” Oh how true that was.

I folded the tissue into a tiny square and left it on the floor next to my shoes, so that I would remember it when I left the store, knowing I couldn’t leave it in the dressing room – I mean who does that? I placed the pen on the little white square and quickly threw on one of my long sleeve shirts and exited the dressing room to the fake “OH! I just LOVE that color on you!”

Upon reentering my tiny cell I could still smell the shit, and bad. I took another tissue out and wrapped my little package again, hoping the extra layer might displace some of the smell. It didn’t. I quickly finished up trying on clothes, gagging on the stench and left the dressing room to purchase my new fashion selections. I was sooooo gonna rock this winter with my new grey sweater and shirt of every color. I was pretty excited about my selections and knew I had multiple coupons to get $130 off my purchase price.

I told the girl at the counter my phone number, she found my account, informed me I had now achieved a gold membership level, YAY for spending, and checked me out. I smiled and chatted her up, taking my time at the counter to really make a good impression, throwing one liners out and joking with them all. I took my bag and walked out of White House Black Market with my head held high and excitement with each step as I thought about the softness of my new sweater, the deal I had gotten on the duster sweater, and my new long sleeve shirts.

It wasn’t until I reached my car that I remembered the dog shit…still in the dressing room…wrapped in tissues with the pen purposely placed over it to stamp down the smell. Then the horror registered that they had my name since I used my membership rewards to get the discount I had been so smug about. I considered going back, but what do I say, “Oh excuse me, that noxious tissue is mine?” or “Hi, I just left some shit in the dressing room, literally.” And what if they had already removed the shit tissue. Did they think I wiped my ass in the dressing room? How do I explain a tissue full of shit? And who scrapes off shit into a tissue and leaves it there?

Nope, I would just have to leave the rogue shit and hope that they didn’t realize the tiny package I left was an extra special gift just for them. From now on I will have to shop at night so as to never see the sales girls again, and I pray they didn’t put a little asterisk on my account, “Woman shit in the dressing room”.

Apparently shit does happen, all too often in my life.

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  1. It could have been worse. It could have been human shit. While there normally aren’t any dogs in the city I work in, we do have a moderately high homeless population. A few of ’em aren’t shy about doing their business on the sidewalks, the night before every workday. You’d think “shit is shit” but in my opinion, at least, there’s something extra disgusting about the human-made product.