Suzi Foltz: Saying yes to the dress?
“Why, hello! Welcome to (insert overly priced formal wear store name here). What are we looking for today?”
Okay, that was a simple enough one, “Well, a prom dress.”
“Do you have any certain styles in mind?”
“Not really. I haven’t narrowed it down and I’m kind of looking around at everything.”
“Alright then! Let me know if you do need anything!”
Yes! They’re going to leave me alone to myself to complain about how bad I look in orange and they won’t suggest animal prints encrusted with pounds of sequins.
“Do you know if you want long or short!?”
Damn, how did she get to the other side of the store so quick? And why didn’t I see her move?
“Probably long. Seems more prom traditional to me,” I said appeasing the attendant at least a little bit with instruction.
She gave quick nod and disappeared. I turned back to the rack I was flipping through, amazed by how many colors could be forced together on the same dress.
“Are ya looking for a solid? Or are ya more of a print gal!?”
This time she was smiling from the other end of the aisle.
Was I a “print gal”? Not typically, but that didn’t necessarily mean I wanted to rule out every print in the building. It wasn’t fair to the good prints of the world.
“Not sure. Just kind of looking at everything.”
Quick enthusiastic nod #2 and gone. I resumed my perusing. Too bright, this would look better on my sister, way too much cut out of this, could I fit through the door, who wears sleeves on a prom dress?
“Are ya wanting ball gown, mermaid styled, cutouts!? Got any plan in mind?”
Geez woman, I am just browsing! This time she had managed to get right behind with an armful of dresses that she hoped to have me try on as if I was her Barbie. She needed to wear a bell like a cat so I could hear her coming. Honestly, how could she move so silently? Do dressing attendants have special training for that? I didn’t want to be rude, but I wanted to get out of there.
There’s a fine line between what can be seen as assisting or pestering. Yes, its nice to have someone there; help with zippers, let you know the prices or sizes, fetch things for you if you do have a plan in mind, but some of the fancier stores make me uncomfortable. Maybe these stores sell on commission and need you to get a dress for their sake, but it has always turned me off of a store. In my years of shopping, I’ve found that the stores I’m more comfortable are the smaller ones. These ones also happen to be less expensive. Sometimes this is because they might have older styles or a less fancy or lesser known line, but there are still some incredible dresses.
Two stores that I especially like are Augusta Cleaners in Waynesboro and the Fashion Gallery in Verona. Both of these locations have plenty of dresses available for less than $300 and keep a record of what school’s the sell to so that the purchaser is less likely to run into someone with the same dress at their prom. I was not instructed to promote these stores, but with all of the help they have given me in the past four years, I owe it to them.
Alice Barret at the Augusta Cleaners had helped my sister through all of her Homecomings, formals, and proms, and has extended this kindness to me. She is honest and will actually tell me if she thinks something looks bad. Whenever I have been stuck between multiple dresses in the past she has gotten a vote along with my mother, sister, and best friend. Also, the Cleaners provide alterations and cleaning for the formal wear, even if you didn’t purchase it there; definitely beneficial.
At the Fashion Gallery, I have always had an older woman, Jean, serve as my shopping specialist. She was there when I bought last year’s prom dress (only $120) and she was there when I bought this year’s dress (only $230). She always seems to have an actual invested interest in what I’ll be wearing, without badgering me, which I always appreciate. She has even asked me to bring a picture back of me and my date so she can see how we end up looking.
A prom is not a wedding. The day is not about you, it’s about your class. There are quite a few more color options. You may have more than one prom (I know it is possible to have more than one wedding, but the traditionalist part of my brain reminds me that there’s supposed to be just one). But it is important to a teenage girl (quite a few teenage boys too). That’s what I have been to four different dress shops, some multiple times, in the past two months. And I’m one of the more conservative female shoppers. Imagine how the hardcore dedicated shoppers are; everyone knows one and I’m sure someone just popped into your mind.
This past weekend my problems were solved. (Attention: if you’re male you might just want to skip over this paragraph.) I found a dress. Not too flash, not too plain, not too short, a smidge too long but alterations are only $30. It has a large floral pattern at the bottom and around the bodice (guess I was a bit of a “print gal”). The colors are majority white, with red and black; good colors for matching my date. While in the store, four other shoppers complimented it; always a good sign.
So there we are. Nothing more to worry about. Just the hair, makeup, shoes, dinner, pictures, what to do before and after, time constraints …
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Endless Nuggets?
I have always been a fan of eating. It’s necessary, nourishing, enjoyable, and a social experience. Not to mention, I’m quite good at it. So naturally, I get excited when free food is mentioned. This is exactly what happened the other day when my teacher mentioned that it was All You Can Eat Nugget Night at Chick-fil-A.
For anyone who does not understand what this date entails, it means that you can go to the Chick-fil-A of Waynesboro, make one small purchase of an 8-count nugget, and eat until you explode. Like a buffet of strictly chicken. (One of the many promotions that Chick-fil-A holds to gain family friendly attention; find more at cfarestaurant.com/waynesboro/events#.)
Now the idea of eating that much alone sounds kind of pathetic, so I mentioned it to my best friend, who to my relief was just as excited as I was. We texted around and found another brave soul willing to clog his arteries with us, and we headed out.
When we arrived, the main lot was pretty full; people parking up in the park-and-ride and along the curb. Luckily, someone had just left and we filled an opening close enough to the building that we didn’t have to actually put in physical effort. I placed my order: a single 8-count nugget and a cup of water. The cost of this was $2.79, $3.07 with tax. $3.07 to fill my stomach? Not bad, not bad at all. The cashier handed me my order, an extra plate, and a Lowe’s paint stirring stick to hold up whenever I needed a refill.
We had trouble finding a seat at first; the room full of greasy fingered people holding up their sticks as if they were at an auction. Once we had a place I sat staring at my plate wondering how much I could eat. Usually I get the 8-count and that is enough to fill me. Often, it is too much and I sit there with an extra one or two in front of me, causing me to poke my friend repeatedly until he agrees to finish them for me. Today was different, though. The words “All You Can Eat” does that to a person…
I slowed down around my 13th nugget. I was full. But endless nuggets… The event we were fairly certain was dine in only, but I felt compelled to sneak at least a few in my bag to take home to my family (see, good intentions).
“What are they gonna do? Repossess your chicken, Suzi? They can’t do that.”
“Yeah, they wouldn’t be able to reuse that chicken for anyone else so that’d be a waste. And it’s not like they can search your bag or anything.”
My friends are so supportive.
We casually continued to hold up our stick, and I casually continued to slip them into a container in my bag. At one point, one of the many servers asked me how many refills I had had.
“Uhm…3?”
“Aww hun, don’t be embarrassed! There’s a man over there that I just gave a 12-count refill to. He’s had near 48!”
If one man can suck down 48 nuggets I could smuggle a few with me home.
Soon after, we decided we could not consume more and that we had to get going. That was the point that my friends realized they couldn’t carry their own out. One because he was a guy and a box wouldn’t fit in his pocket and he didn’t want the chicken just freely in there. The other because her purse was open at the top and they could topple out. Knowing our coordination, this was likely. So I offered to carry theirs for them. We then exited; my bag brimming with chicken.
I handed theirs back once at the car and we soon parted ways.
Once home I counted out my 18 smuggled nuggets.
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: At least now I know what the registration looks like
“Can I see your license and registration?”
Words that no one likes to hear. Words that I hadn’t had to hear with consequences to myself until Wednesday morning. Yes, I’ve heard it in movies and TV shows and when once my dad was pulled over and I happened to be in the car. I’ve even been pulled over twice myself before, but only due to a broken taillight that the officers wanted to inform me of. But never had I received my own personal yellow piece of paper summoning me to court.
It all started that morning before I came into the Augusta Free Press office. I was doing my usual morning activities; raiding the fridge for something to call breakfast, attempting to find matching socks, Facebook creeping, and drinking my daily glass of Sunny D (yes, I realize it’s not real orange juice…). Somewhere during this lovely routine I lost track of time and then noticed I had only 8 minutes before I had to be behind my desk where I’m writing this story now. I then grabbed all of the things I would need at school and the office, shoved them into my blue ’98 Volkswagen Bug, and took off.
I was driving down Old White Bridge Road, a rural road that is 55 mph with lower markings for specified curves. This is a road that I have driven down at least twice a day, every day since I’ve had my license; whether it’s for school, mentorship, work, or just to be able to see something that is not a cow field. So needless to say, it’s a road that I feel pretty comfortable on. I know the rough spots, I know how fast I can take the turns in my car, and I know all the little roads where a car could turn onto Old White Bridge. With all of this said, I was probably going a little too fast…
Towards the end of the road, you are entering the “city” of Waynesboro, and the road becomes residential and therefore is marked as 35 mph. At this point, I was honestly slowing down from whatever speed I had been going, but I suppose I did not do this in time, because the flashing blue lights appeared in my mirror.
The police car was all black, one of those undercover cop cars, the kind that frustrate drivers even more because they’re thinking they’re getting away with whatever they’re doing and then bam…pulled over.
I slowed my car to a stop as far over as I could, which wasn’t very far, because there is not much of a shoulder on this part of the road. My stopping point happened to also be right in front of the house of a friend of mine. I was silently thanking the fact that she was in school, and therefore not home to see this occurrence and text everyone in her phone about it, when the officer got out of his car.
Flashbacks of my sophomore year in Driver’s Ed class popped into my head. I could picture Coach Grove in his slow, slurred, southern accent saying alright, “if’n you’re gonna get pulled over you wanna be your politest. Make sure you have your winder down and your radio is cut off. Don’t be fiddlin’ with stuff. Ladies, don’t try to, ahem, promote yourselfs, cuz this’ll jist make it worse. Look em in the eye and say ‘yes, sir’.”
Despite the many differences of opinion I had with Coach Grove, I followed all the advice he had given me. I even quickly tried to get rid of my gum by sticking it to a piece of paper shoved in between my seats (a fun tidbit that I forgot about until later that afternoon). When the expected ‘license and registration’ came I pulled out my license and opened my glove box to find my registration.
“Uhm…sir, to be honest, I don’t exactly know what the registration looks like. I’ve never had to do this before,” I tried to explain as I pulled out air-fresheners, artificial flowers, and a page of stickers.
For a second he just looked at me; a look that I bet a lot of clueless teenage girls get from him. I pulled blindly at a paper and held it out to him.
“Is this it?”
“No.”
“Oh…how about this?”
-Blind grab take 2-
“No.”
“Well, what exactly do they look like? This?”
“I think it’d be in that envelope there.”
“Oh okay, thank you, Sir.”
Why the hell was I thanking him? He was giving me a ticket. I was late for work. I’d have to pay a fine. Possibly attend driving school. Tell my parents about this fun little encounter. And here I was saying “thank you” in what I can only describe as my speaking-to-an-authority-default-cheerleader voice.
The officer informed me that I had been going 51 in a 35, did I realize that? Well, no. He took the items with him to his car with him and told me to “sit tight” for a minute. I did. For a moment during this I actually felt kind of proud of myself. I’d imagined my first police pull-over before, and I thought I’d freak out more. I’d heard of a lot of girls who had burst into tears upon receiving the first ticket. I’ve never been much of public crier, so I was not totally shocked when this didn’t occur, but I thought I’d be shaky, or maybe I’d even throw up. But none of this occurred; instead I sat staring straight ahead thinking (insert first curse word that pops in your mind here).
The thing you get a lot when you own a Bug is weird looks. The thing you get when pulled over by a cop is sympathetic looks. The thing you get when pulled over in a Bug by a cop is comical expressions. Laughs, full on head turning, steering wheel slapping; yes, thank you residents of Waynesboro for that.
The officer came back and handed me a summons, killing the little bit of hope I had that he’d take pity on me. He then told me to be carefully as I pulled off.
I drove on to the office, and decided that before I went in I should probably call my mom.
“Hello? Suzi?”
“HI MOM! How’s your morning?”
“Well, it’s alright. Is something wrong?”
“I sort of just got my first speeding ticket… I know it was bad, and you’re always telling me to be more carefully and to watch my speed, and everything, and I know that I have to pay the fine, and that I have a job, so that I’ll be paying it for myself, and that I might have to go to driving school, and I didn’t even know what the registration was and mom…?”
She was laughing on the other end.
Column by Suzi Foltz. Suzi is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Unfit for fitness?
“So, you wanna hear something funny?”
“Sure Suzi, why not.”
“I’m going to a gym tonight…”
This little exchange with a friend of mine in class pretty much sums up my attempts at fitness. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not morbidly obese or incapable of movement; I’m just…well, not very coordinated.
I’ve attended pretty much every sporting event our school has to offer; football, basketball, soccer, volleyball, baseball, softball. I’ve even been to some of the lesser attended sports like cross country, indoor track, and wrestling (I have yet to attend a tennis match, but the year is not over and it will probably happen), so I can say that to an extent I understand sports. I understand the competitiveness, the camaraderie, the attempts at bettering yourself, and possibly working to achieve the upgrade to college level sports.
With all this said, I have never played a high school sport, been on a team, or possessed a gym membership. I have however, endangered others with my attempts in gym class, damaged gym equipment because of misuse, and been told that I look stupid when I run… If you’re picturing a teenage girl with arms flailing and heavy breathing, then you’re close.
People have told me that you do not necessarily have to be an athlete to exercise, and with this statement I agree. I do enjoy hiking, skiing, swimming, walking my dog, and other outdoor activities. I feel like I’m safer as long as there isn’t a specific guideline for what you have to do and preferably if not many other people are around. I was quite content with my solo attempts at fitness, until the invasion of the Powerhouse Gym employees.
I know that last statement sounds like low budget indie film, but it’s actually what happened while I was at working my regular shift at Zeus Digital Theaters. I had been taking tickets when a group of young women in workout clothes came in.
“Hi! We’re from Powerhouse!”
“Oh…that’s great…?”
“We’re here to set up for the exercise demonstration.”
“Ohhhh, ok. I hadn’t heard of this, let me get my manager…”
-Enter Sheldon, my manager-
“Hello, what can I help you with?”
“Hi! We’re from Powerhouse!”
“Uhm…ok? What can I do for you?”
“We talked to Brett about doing a demonstration in the lobby to promote our fitness classes?”
And thus my day changed from watching the customers at the counter and listening to movie soundtrack music play through the speakers, to watching overly energetic girls dance around the lobby to what my guess was a mix of African tribal chants, Bollywood music, and Rhianna.
At one point, they offered for the employees to join in. I instantly refused, knowing my lack of coordination would probably disrupt the furniture or a small movie-goer. My coworkers were a little more tempted to join, but even they refused because we were on the clock.
After a couple hours the people from “Powerhouse!” packed up to leave and handed out passes for three free days at the gym for all of the Zeus employees. Somehow, in the week that followed my friend and coworker, Megan, convinced me to try a Zumba class with her.
Visualize a gym, any gym. I’ve had this habit in the past of always picturing super buff people lifting weights that I can only move with my car, or people who can run distances that again, I could only accomplish in my car. It’s a strange mindset to have, but in my head it’s like you have to be physically fit to a certain degree to be accepted at a fitness center, which kind of defeats the purpose of a gym…
I will, however, fight through this and use my three-day pass. I will do whatever Mrs. “Hi I’m from Powerhouse!” tells me to do. I will ignore Mr. I-Can-Lift-Refrigerators and Miss I-Ran-Here-From-Tennessee. And I will attempt to enjoy fitness.
Column by Suzi Foltz. Suzi is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Out of the nest, and onto the beach
Thousands of short stories, novels, TV series and movies include coming-of-age stories. A young boy must fill his father’s shoes and take care of the family, a young girl moves away from home and must make it on her own, a warrior must go off and kill something yadda yadda yadda. It’s the idea of a literal event being symbolic to a young person as they grow older; showing change, achievement, and independence. An event that takes place every year and serves as the “leaving of the nest” for the residents of Augusta County is Beach Week.
Some of you are probably thinking, Oh, she has it wrong, it’s graduation. And yes, as an honor student, I agree that graduation is a tremendous achievement, but it’s not what I’m referring to. Graduation is recognition of what you have done; the handing of the tools, the dubbing with a sword, the “follow the yellow brick road” of life, but Beach Week is the let loose, unsupervised, “no hands!” moment in life for teenagers.
In this area, everyone and their hairdresser has a story. Literally. Last year when I was getting my hair done for prom, the hairdresser told a story of her Beach Week; one that included coming up with money for bail for two members of their party. My sister’s Beach Week ended with a few members coming home with some extra ink on their skin. I don’t think that the group I have planned my Beach Week will have that intense of a week, but I am curious what thoughts are running through my mother’s mind.
While looking online for a house, my best friend and I came across a note from a beach-goer’s mom that had fallen out of their bag and had been put up online. It was a list of things not to do at Beach Week, which we read through with my mom. Please do not drink, please do not do drugs, please do not have sex, please do not drink and drive, please do not do drugs and drive, please do not have sex and drive, please do not ride with anyone who has been doing any of these things, please do not eat beef or caffeine, please do not get pierced or tattooed, please have a lovely weekend; just be careful. Geez, moms kill all the fun. … Actually, after reading this, my mom laughed, told me she’d be okay with me doing three of these (she did not specify which three), and then went off to make pancakes.
To anyone reading this who does not know my mother, you are probably thinking she is a bit strange, but I know she worries about me. She is not immune to the stereotypically beach happenings of “Jersey Shore” and about half of teen movies. I am the youngest of four, and a female, so there are lots of possible negative outcomes, but she has level of trust with me because of the way I have behaved throughout my underaged years. She knows that I will be going off to college next year, where anything could happen pretty much any night. Also, she has met everyone I am going with, a fairly respectable group of kids (who might be reading this article; love you guys!), and feels that whatever happens we will do it with a level of dignity and safety.
Our plans are well underway. The beach and week have been selected, we have registered with a beach house company, and the first of three payments has been sent in. It might not be ideal; we will be sleeping on bunk beds and futons, and it will be six teenage girls and two teenage guys sharing one bathroom, but it works for us.
At least for me, it will be my first trip “on my own.” I’ve always had my parents, a teacher, an adviser, or at least my sister with me when I traveled. It will be an interesting experience, but one that I am definitely looking forward to. Now all I have to do is wait four months.
Suzi Foltz is a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Parenting when you’re not the parent
When you work box office at a movie theater, you become very practiced in the art of people watching. I realize that makes me sound like a complete creep, but its something that cannot be helped.
You notice when an elderly couple in their Sunday best come in to view a matinee showing of “Jackass 3D,” you notice when a few middle schoolers wait by the door trying to work up the nerve to ask for a rated R ticket that I will refuse to give them, you notice just how much extra butter people demand on their popcorn, and you can’t help but notice when you’ve upset someone.
This past weekend when working the 12:30 to 6 shift at Zeus Digital Theaters in Waynesboro, a man and his wife worked their way back to the ticket counter after their movie. Coming to the counter before your movie is perfectly acceptable and in fact, completely necessary; however, coming to the counter after your movie means one thing, something is wrong.
As they came closer I put on my happy-to-help-you smile and tried to predict what it would be. The theater is too loud; we wanted to see it in 3D, why didn’t we have it in 3D?; a kid threw up in the row in front of us; we were charged as adults and we’re senior citizens, can we get our $1.00 back?; or maybe even, there was too much cussing in that movie. I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t have any say in the writing or filming of that movie. I just sell the tickets.
However, their comment was none of these. In fact, what they had to say I completely agreed with and respected them for. They had gone to see “The Mechanic,” a rated R movie with pretty much nonstop violence, lots of inappropriate language, and incredibly graphic sex scenes. Their comment was not on behalf of their own opinion of the movie, but instead the audience who had gone to see it. There were two small children who were in their theater. The childrens’ ages I would estimate at 7 and 5, or at least near there. The older couple asked me why they were in there. I remembered the customers who they were talking about. They were very young, and I did not enjoy selling them the tickets, but it was what their father chose.
The policy for rated R movies is that the buyer must be at least 17 years old to purchase tickets for themselves. If they are under the age of 17 they must have a 21-year-old buy the ticket for them or a parent present to give consent. The parent of the two children in my example above technically did everything inside the rules, but does this make it right?
As a teenager, I will admit that I do not exactly have the most responsible opinions all the time, but even I found it a bit ridiculous. If I had been the parent myself, I would have taken them to see “Yogi Bear,” despite how stupid I think I’d find it myself, or just wait for another kids’ movie to come to the theater.
The concerned couple were explained our policies by the owner of the theater and the manager who was on staff. They eventually nodded and headed out, but my opinion matched theirs. I’m glad there are members of our community who take into consideration the minds of others. However, is it really my place to say how to be a parent when I’ve never been one myself?
Suzi Foltz is an Augusta Free Press intern and Wilson Memorial High School senior.
Suzi Foltz: ‘Look, No Hands!’ vs. Death Grip
Posted by afp on April 19, 2011 · Leave a Comment
It had been a really hot day last April when I had gone to Kings Dominion with two friends and my sister. After the first few hours of wandering around and going on Suzi-proof rides, they decided they wanted to ride the Volcano. The volcano: a roller coaster involving fire, shooting out of a volcano, and being upside down at several points. Uhm…no.
I offered to sit out and just watch, but they were persistent, using supporting points like I was practically an adult and could handle it, they’d have an odd number without me and someone would have to ride alone, the rides are tested all of the time, people don’t die on roller coasters…often…
After a while I decided I had to do it. To fight my reasoning and fears for once. I was sixteen years old, I was supposed to love doing stupid things, and at that time, this was a stupid thing to me.
We got in line and waited for about an hour before we actually got to the ride. By then I had waited so long that I absolutely could not back out; you don’t pay money to go to an amusement park and stand around.
To be honest, I can’t remember much of the ride. I didn’t pass out or anything, it all just happened so fast. I remember starting out slow of the loading area and then all of a sudden we shot off; much faster than I had expected. When we shot out of the volcano I could feel my body jerking against the over the shoulder restraint lock; suspended in the area for brief seconds every now and then. Flash! There was the parking lot. Flash! There was some tree! Flash! That was the ground…above me. Flash! We were done.
I absolutely loved it.
I felt a huge sense of accomplishment as the attendant unlocked my seat and signaled for us to exit the loading area. I walked off astounded but then realized I was walking alone. I turned around to see the rest of my group staring at me skeptically.
“So…did you like it?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Well good…because that was like one of the worst upside down rides in the park and now all the others will be no problem!”
I hated them. I loved them. I hit them. I was laughing.
I went on two more roller coasters involving upside-down-ness that day: the Dominator and The Flight of Fear. Both of them were amazing to me and I finally understood why people would wait in lines for so long to ride them.
At this year’s Staunton Spring Carnival I even went on some questionable rides. In a way I feel these are worse than amusement park rides because at parks, even though the rides are bigger, they are stationary and regularly maitenanced. With carnival rides, the machines are moved around every week. What if one bolt wasn’t retightened quite enough? Or what if a piece wasn’t locked in properly during the move?
One ride was a room that spun so fast that the force would push you against a wall, and eventually lift you off the floor: Fun.
However, it didn’t have anything strapping you to the wall and the panels move purely by centrifugal force: Questionable.
We also rode a Ferris wheel sort of ride: Fun.
However, the carts could spin upside down and would leave you facing straight up or straight down for extend periods while people were loading and unloading: Questionable.
I fought through the sketchy aspects and ended up having a great time. I’d even recommend those rides…for anyone who is not easily nauseated.
I am not some sort of adrenaline junkie now, but I do plan to expand my acceptable rides list. I’m scheduled to go on another trip to Kings Dominion this week with some of the same people and this time I intend to do no waiting (except for maybe the Berserker, but you never know…).
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