The Difference Between Neiman Marcus and WalMart*

I am in Orange County, California, and LOVIN’ IT. The creative energy of this place is contagious, palpable, inspiring. The advertisements, the home interiors, the personalized license plates, the overheard conversations.

I am loving driving. The traffic flow, the intricate fly-overs, the flawless merging, it is poetry in motion (at least not in rush hour). People actually see you merging and either slow down or move left to make room. Today the traffic for my exit was backed up a mile, and everyone just got in line and waited…no driving past to the front of the line and wedging yourself in front of folks who did the right thing. They signal, they look, they are polite to slow if you need to change lanes. They go really darn fast, though. I am staying to the right and barely keeping up.

I am loving friendly people. Even more than Illinois, people are smiling. Happy. Singing in their cars, grinning skyward while bike-riding, sharing a belly-laugh while power-walking. Even the muhajebehs are jolly, walking purposefully with ballerina posture and eyes ahead, not down. I am loving being acknowledged as a part of the human race, without getting oogled or propositioned.

I was invited out to lunch by a stranger. I was going to a ladies Bible study at my former church, a special and memory-filled time. My hostess said this morning “Maybe you’ll get invited to lunch afterward!” I kinda laughed, although folks here are friendly, they are busy without much margin for unplanned events. Before it began, I was chatting with a nice older woman, and as the opening chords for a beautiful worship song rang out she asked “Are you free for lunch?” ding-ding-ding. God-op calling. Weighing the quality of our convo, I decided I would take a risk and accept her invite, thinking my hostess may have a bit of a prophetic gift. We’ll probably just go to Soup Plantation, I thought. Wrong.

She said she made reservations at a The Tea Room, which I had never heard of. “It’s in Fashion Island”, she said, “Do you know how to get there?” It had been twenty-three years since I lived there, and couldn’t remember, so she asked me to follow her. Hhmm, Fashion Island, I remember that being a place I couldn’t afford to even walk IN to, even in my career-girl Estee Lauder days.

Second glimpse of understanding was seeing her powder blue Lexus SUV. She was not dressed like the typical Newport Beach matron, but she didn’t talk like one either. No Botox, either. Double hhmmmmmm.

To my absolute surprise, we pulled into the parking lot of NEIMAN MARCUS. Oh wow. The Tea Room was a restaurant inside NM. She knew some of the saleswomen by name: Cheryl at Clinique, Penny Ann in Fine Home Furnishings, the Tea Room Hostess. The place was filled with elegant, immaculately dressed, perfectly coiffed and tanned, French toe-nailed Balboa Bay Club Babes.

I, on the other hand, was dressed in Cornland Garage Sale finds. I looked sharp, yea, but top to toe my outfit cost less than a cup of coffee at the Tea Room. But, the good thing about being 50 is that you really don’t care any more, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  So did my new friend. She introduced me, the Jordan-dwelling novelty, to everyone.

My salad cost $18. Ya salaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam. An etched Christian LaCroix bottle of water was $10.

Lindy, the model who walks by the tables showing off different ensembles of designer clothes, shoes and jewelry, showed me the difference between NM and WM. She carried a beautiful Valentino bag, and my new friend asked her how much it cost.

“Eighteen Fifty” replied Lindy with a beautiful professional smile.

Eighteen Fifty to me means $18.50, about what my suede bag from Walmart* cost.

At NM, it means $1,850. Just two decimal points.

Heh-heh.I am sure that is a cleverly planned marketing tool.

Culture shock isn’t always defined by East-West issues!

I really like my new friend, too. She’s a fireball. I am glad I took a risk and went.