That Voice

I don’t like being called “girlie”. Especially by other girls. Kinda makes me wanna throw something. I don’t necessarily care what it is I’m throwing, I just wanna pick up the nearest thing and chuck it. Can’t explain it, it’s up there with being touched by someone else’s feet. It’s like a weird glitch in my system.

While I’m at it, I really don’t understand that voice that female store employees use when they talk to me. You know that “Are you finding everything okay?” voice that’s so high, it’s barely audible to humans? Why do they talk like that? It’s a great voice for talking to small dogs, a commercial for sparkly lip gloss for three year olds, or maybe for an obnoxious puppet with pink yarn braided hair. Or fairies. (Not the ethereal sparkly ones from those fantasy movies from the eighties, but the cartoony ones whose wings have to flap overtime in order to keep their round, strawberry scented bodies in the air.) I digress. Back to the store employees. It’s not only the cutsie doe-eyed ones with poufy hair starting at the crown of the head, an overabundance of mascara, and the perfect size 2 butts. It’s all the female employees that work in stores that sell things that cater to women. Lotion, bras, clothes, shoes, makeup. . . We’re not safe. There are no exceptions. Even if you find a normal voiced person there, you know there’s another who’s got the high pitched little dog-lip gloss-puppet-fairy voice.

The weird thing is; I’ve heard them talk to me in that voice. “Can I help you find anything?. . . No? . . Ok, well my name is Tiffany (of course it is) if you need anything.” And then they turn around to their co-worker, Amber and talk about Jake (you know, the guy who works in Foot Locker who looks crazy hot in his referee uniform. . . Something about that striped shirt that just does it. Mmm mmm.) in a voice that’s two octaves lower. Isn’t there some sort of high pitched little dog- lip gloss – puppet fairy voice self help group? Maybe an intervention type thing?

I think I’ve got to take this into my own hands. The next time I walk into Victoria’s Secret, the Buckle, or Express and one of those girls talk to me in the high pitched little dog-lip gloss-puppet-fairy voice, I’ll answer in my best low voice I can muster. I’m not talking Kathleen Turner raspy. . . I’m talking full-on Bea Arthur. If I could get down to Harvey Fierstein, I’d hit them with that, but I don’t think I’m able to. I’ll have to work on that one.