shopping

Pawn Shop Valentine

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Nothing says “I love you” quite like cashing in on other people’s misfortune.

Last Friday night I saw something that—as far as I’m concerned—takes the V-Day cupcake when it comes to over-the-top. I saw a Valentine’s Day commercial for… Are you ready for this? A pawn shop. The commercial illustrated how flowers are for pathetic losers… and the real Valentine’s Day gifts can be found at Pay Day Pawn (not it’s real name). “Hey everyone! Not sure what to get that special someone for the BIG day?? … Come on down to Pay Day Pawn, where we are bound to have exactly what you’re looking for!”

Just what your girl or guy wants… someone else’s used crap. “Hey honey! This is how special YOU are to ME… This V-Day, let’s skip the flowers and chocolate-covered strawberries. Instead, I’m taking you to Pay Day Pawn and let you dig around in other people’s cast-offs for something special that shows you and reminds you ALL YEAR LONG just how much you mean to me!”

Big screen TVs, antiques, used jewelry, musical instruments, amputee Hummels and grandma’s chipped tea set (that is missing several pieces). Yup. I don’t know about you folks, but that certainly is MY idea of a Valentine’s Day wish come true. Because nothing else truly conveys your love for him like a nice, gently-used set of golf clubs circa 1963. And you’ll NEVER find anything that shows her how deep your love for her goes like a tarnished, ruby dinner ring set in 14-karat, yellow gold and surrounded by dozens of cloudy baguettes.

I know times are tough and I am in no way poking fun at a non-traditional or second-hand form of gift giving. Not everyone can or even wants to blow a miniature fortune on some roses that will inevitably die or splurge on an over-priced dinner at an overly-crowded restaurant. Sometimes a sweet sentiment or kind and selfless act does FAR more than anything money can buy. But if your significant other actually takes you to Pay Day Pawn for your gift this year… Well… perhaps it’s time to consider pawning them. And who knows… maybe they’ll fetch a really good price!

My Own Private Christmas

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This is the day I’ve been waiting for. Two days before Christmas. Christmas Eve Eve if you will. Today I sleep until the Lord wakes me (instead of the alarm clock) then curl up with a nice, warm, artery-clogging breakfast, a good cup of joe and a cheesy Christmas movie… and Stanley, the cat. Naturally.

In my pajamas, wrapped in a soft blanket, the tree is twinkling and all of the presents beneath are wrapped in pretty paper, each topped off with a nice red bow. There is no more shopping to do. No more worrying about what to get and for whom. If they don’t like it… well… it’s too late now.

There are no parties to rush to or concerts and services to attend, therefore the Spanx, control top panty hose and tall leather boots are quietly stashed away in their respective closets and drawers. There is no fuss about a pair of flannel pants and old, college sweatshirt. There is no need for makeup. No one needs me today. And it is a thing of beauty.

Tomorrow, on Christmas Eve—when the family gatherings and church services begin—well, that will be another story. Today is what I like to call “My Own Private Christmas” with my own sacred practices and traditions. It is the gift that I give to myself… a chance to take a deep breath… and an opportunity to reflect on all of the beautiful people and things that make my life so full.

Were it not for all of them filling up the other 364 days of the year… there would be no need for a day like today.

Spanx: A True Holiday Miracle

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I don’t know how they do it and I don’t care. It doesn’t matter how they manufacture something capable of shaving 5 to 10 pounds off of my “lumpy places” — just so long as they keep on doing it. Forever.

Packing a little extra luggage in the trunk is usually inevitable this time of year what with all the gathering, merry-making and drinking to drown out the sound of your annoying relatives as they get all up in yo’ biz.

But the question then comes—as you try to stuff that trunk full ‘o goodies into your favorite sweater dress or skinny black skirt—what the hell do you do with all of this stuff that’s accumulated about your butt, thighs and tummy?

Enter my holiday BFF: Spanx. Trust me, if you aren’t already a believer… drag your own larger-than-normal trunk to the store and pick up a pair. Or two. Or three. I promise they’re on sale right now.

PROBLEM.

SOLUTION.

It’s a bit of a trick and little bit of torture trying to get them on and off… but the results are so very worth it. Just imagine slamming all the cookies, chocolate, cheese, brandy, rum and yummy treats made with real butter and heavy cream that your heart desires and still looking stellar for the office Christmas party or New Year’s Eve bash.

As soon as they’re over you can go home and—after about 90 minutes of cursing as you wrestle your way out of your own private sausage casing—slip into the warm, forgiving embrace of your sweats… and no one will be the wiser.

The Last Gift

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These tall, leather boots that look soooo great on and seemed like such a great and fashionable idea this morning… suck. My feet are killing me. My toes are numb and the balls of my feet are yelling curse words so loudly with each step that I take… I’m certain the kid stocking the shelves over there heard them call me a miserable whore.

But it’s OK, for I am almost done. There is but one item that remains on my list of gifts to buy for my near and dear ones this Christmas holiday. Being this close to the end somehow makes the pain worthwhile. Like the agony of the last few miles of a marathon I will push past it—vulgar feet stuffed into evil, leather boots and all—I can see the finish line.

This one item should be easy. It seems to be all the rage and everyone is talking about it. It’s been spotted at several stores. Thus it stands to reason that this particular purchase… my last purchase (did I mention that?) should be a relative retail breeze.

Ahhhh… more wrong I could not have been.

The item that everyone is talking about that seems to be one of the “IT” gifts of the 2011 shopping season… also seems to be the ONE thing that no one, and I MEAN NO ONE has ever even heard of. And I’m not talking about little, small-town, Mom and Pop village merchants peddling their wares to worn out Christmas zombies.

I’m talking about the Big Boys. The Big Box stores. The Gods of Greed… the Royalty of Retail… The Princes of Peddlers and Kings of Ka-Ching. You know, the ones who are supposed to have their sticky, little fingers on the pulse of every shopper?

Well, for some reason as this exhausted customer drug her potty-mouthed tooties from one shitty parking spot to another, fighting holiday gridlock the whole entire way… I was greeted with the same answer everywhere I went. It went a little something like this:

Me: “Excuse me, do you have any ____________?”

Oh, I should mention that I am purposefully NOT mentioning the gift until after it is given a week from now lest the recipient read this entry and either A. Feel badly that they are NOT receiving this “must have” item from their list, or B. Feel even worse that I had such a terrible time trying unsuccessfully to find the damn thing.

Big Box employee: “Any what? I’ve never heard of that. Let me check with management / some guy named Larry / this clueless-looking girl standing right beside me.”

Me: Silence accompanied by nearly-defeated-shoulder-slumping, followed by a huge sigh, followed by a prayer, followed by some hopeful breath-holding.

My feet: “You @!$%#. If you make us stand here or go to ONE MORE store after this, I swear by tomorrow morning I WILL TAKE YOU DOWN. And when you recover, you’ll be wearing flats until February. Do you hear me?”

Big Box employee: “I’m sorry. We don’t carry __________. We’ve actually never heard of that. Maybe XYZ Big Box Store will have them. Happy Holidays!”

Me AND my feet: “Already tried there, dumb @$$. Now shove it.”

But I was determined (as well as held hostage by my vital and angry appendages) that this store would be the last stop on our retail mission. The person on my list wanting ______________ would have to settle for Plan B. And that was all there was too it.

Merry Christmas and Happy Last-Minute Shopping everyone! My two bits of advice on locating that elusive last gift on your list: Have a back-up plan… and by all means… wear comfortable shoes.

Made in the USA or… Ode to my White Corner Shelf Unit

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In this troubled economy, it seems to have become popular here in the U.S. to “buy American.” Now, I think it’s ideal and patriotic (and all that crap) to buy stuff that says “Made in the USA” whenever possible… However, apparently the mere EXISTENCE of these words on the package of a product, does NOT necessarily ensure that the product is of better quality than something that says: “Made in China.”

Recently I purchased a white, corner shelf unit to put in my dining room. Ohhhh, White-Corner-Shelf-Unit, how I’ve longed for this day when you and I would be united and you would stand up for me in the corner of my dining room and I could place lovely little knick-knacks upon your surfaces! You will make my dining room look like a page out of ‘Martha Stuart’s Living’, and I, in kind, promise to dust you, and clean you and protect you from children, pets or vacuum cleaners that might color on, spill on, scratch, chip or ding you.

OK, sorry to be so dramatic, but it is imperative that you understand the extent to which I have pined for this shelving unit. I dream of it… how perfectly it will complete the room. It is my passion. It is my madness. The day finally comes. I find it! I have a gift card! I purchase it! I take it home! I can’t wait to put it together! I collect and purchase JUST THE RIGHT bric-a-brac in which to place on the shelves once it’s assembled! I open the box! I slide out the contents! I locate the pieces! I read the directions! I do not see all of the pieces! What the #@%$?!?! How can this be? How can it be MISSING pieces? I PAID for it, did I not?

It was enclosed in a box, on the shelf of a reputable store, IN AMERICA! This IS America, after all, land of plenty. Meaning, there are PLENTY of foreign-made goods for us all! Let me be honest… I don’t REALLY care where it comes from, just so long as I can decorate the rooms of my dwelling with calm assurance that the purchased item will look just like it does on the box. America: We want It = We seek It = We find It = We buy It = We have It! How can this be happening? It is an outrage. It. Is. An. Injustice.

This is really terrible. My parents are coming over later this evening to see this thing assembled and adorned, and for crying out loud… My mom made BROWNIES! Now I will have nothing to show them… nothing but an empty corner with a stray ball of cat-hair in it… sort of reminds me of a tumble-weed blowing down a long, lonely desert road.

Several heavy sighs and slanderous-remarks-about-the-incompetent-retail-chain later, defeated, and with slumped shoulders, I pack up the box with the pieces that ARE there, and start to re-calculate my game plan. As if peering into a crystal ball… I can see my future… an agitated phone call to customer service (waiting on hold for at least 10 minutes)… an angry rummage to find the blasted receipt (IF I still even have it!!)… A trip BACK to the store (wasted gas money)…

So I’m angrily SHOVING pieces back INTO the box, packing it up and calling my Formerly-Cherished-White-Corner-Shelf-Unit all kinds of nasty names and I think I happen to include the phrase “stupid-Made-in-China-piece-of-crap”… when I happen to notice stamped right on the bottom of the box: “Made in the USA.”

The Day Before Black Friday

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Do you remember it? You probably do… C’mon… think! Think! You know, it’s that day in late November where we all stop what we’re doing, get together with our families and friends, eat obscene amounts of food and watch football. We stuff ourselves with loads of turkey and dressing and mashed potatoes and candied yams and green bean casserole and hot, buttered rolls and of course, pumpkin pie. And many of us also take some time to pause and reflect upon that for which we are thankful. I guess that’s why it is generally referred to as Thanksgiving.

However, for some strange reason, in recent years the term “Thanksgiving” seems to have eluded us. Despite the fact that our country remains deep in a recession and we’re still seeing some of the highest unemployment numbers in decades, I noticed a disturbing trend emerging even stronger than in years past. The trend being that what was formerly referred to as Thanksgiving is now merely The Day Before Black Friday.

I’m not an idiot and I don’t live under a rock. I’ve known for years that here in America we worship the almighty dollar more than anything else. And in direct correlation with that, we worship things. We see it… we like it… we want it… we HAVE to have it! After all, the neighbors do. And by all means we must keep up with our neighbors and our relatives and our friends and our co-workers. But even with the knowledge that “things” are so important to us… I am still shocked by what I hear at the very top of every newscast during the holiday season (which, by the way, NOW begins immediately following Halloween.)

Notice there is ZERO mention of: “How to Prepare The Most Succulent Turkey,” or “10 Tips for Fixing a Feast Fit for 20,” or even the ever-popular: “How to Avoid Gaining 10 Pounds While Still Ingesting All The Carbs Your Body Can Possibly Handle Without Winding Up in a Coma”

Instead of those all-time favorite Holiday Classics, we are bombarded with: “How to Be the First in Line To Get Your Air Swimmers Giant Flying Fish” or “10 Self-Defense Tips for Fighting the Frantic 3 a.m. Traffic at Wal-Mart” and the NOW popular: “How to Best Manage Your Credit in Order to Still Provide a Magical Material Christmas for Your Child Even Though You’re Broke and Haven’t the Money to Make Your Subprime Mortgage Payment.”

I'm fairly certain THIS is Dante's 9th circle of hell.

What is wrong with this picture? Surely I am not the only one who has made note of this and found it a teensy-bit troubling, unsettling, nerve-wracking or nauseating? Hello? Can I get an Amen?

It doesn’t feel like that long ago news programs, talk shows and magazines served up extra helpings of wisdom on how to have an enjoyable Thanksgiving with the people who mattered most. But seemingly overnight this once-favorite holiday has yielded it’s prominent position to the day after. I’m not exactly sure who is to blame. Whether it’s us—the consumers? Or whether it’s the big-box stores, manufacturers and credit-card companies? I suspect it is probably both… A marketing match made in heaven… Or hell. Depending on how you look at it.

I may be part of a minority here, but I think I’ll stick with the day before Black Friday as my holiday of choice. After all, there is no waiting in line, no angry mobs to deal with and no anguish over paying the bill for those stupid Air Swimmers when it comes due in January, February and March. You see, on The Day Before Black Friday there is only the warm, lazy feeling of being lulled to sleep in front of a football game surrounded (hopefully) by people you love… with a tummy full of turkey.

And I much prefer that.

P.S. By the time the credit card statement comes… that “must-have” flying fish is most likely enjoying the company of dust bunnies… somewhere underneath a bed.

P.P.S. THIS is how I plan on spending my Black Friday…

The Stupidity of the American Consumer: An All Time Low

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Yesterday I found myself in desperate need of chocolate while on my lunch hour so I stopped in Walgreens to peruse the aisles looking for that certain something that would curb my craving. After careful consideration and deliberation I chose a pack of Rolos and headed for the check out.

There’s always been something I have found infinitely fascinating about the items lining the check out area. They are those last-minute impulse buy items… you know, batteries, lighters, matches, decks of cards, emery boards and toenail clippers… candy, gum, mints, Rolaids, miniature tools, scotch tape, pens and lint removers… chapstick, hand lotion, miniature bottles of Jack Daniels (depending on your state’s laws) and tiny packets of aspirin.

I’ll bet stores make a killing off of these items. If you don’t actually need them right then, you certainly will think that you do immediately upon seeing them. They are practical, every day items that will probably never go to waste. So what’s the harm?

Though it was during this time while casing the cache of goods otherwise known as the Gullible Buyer’s Trap, patiently waiting my turn in line (because only ONE of the THREE cashier lines are actually OPEN — which I’ve decided, by the way, is totally a ploy by upper management to move more of this nickel and dime crap) my eyes fell upon something new!

In the center of all of those must-have trinkets was a little display simply called: “help.” It was colorful and unique with kind of a cool design which is probably why it grabbed my attention in the first place. However, upon closer inspection, I discovered how completely ridiculous this thing actually was. In fact, I found it to be so completely stupid that I laughed out loud as I whipped out my camera to document this odd and asinine find.

Oh yeah… and I knew without a doubt that it would also be the subject of my very next post. Which, as you see, it has become.

The rack held six different color-coded boxes each containing a different product for a different “need” spelled out in very simple letters on a plain white cover. They were (yes, in all lower case lettering—probably because some focus group of imbeciles told them it looked cool): “help I have a headache, ” “help I have a stuffy nose,” “help I can’t sleep,” “help I have allergies,” “help I have a blister” and “help I have an aching body.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Are we really THAT stupid that we either A. Don’t know what the hell to buy for what ails us? Or B. Don’t know how the hell to ASK the pharmacist for a suggestion on what to buy for what ails us?

Listen people, if you don’t know what to buy then you should be talking to a doctor not searching for boxes at the check out counter as though it were some sort of pharmaceutical Magic 8 Ball!

So, I thought that perhaps I could help by offering a bit of advice of my own to assist anyone who feels that THIS is indeed the place to go for medical “help”…

  1. Problem: You have a headache. Solution: You have a hammer in the shed?
  2. Problem: You have a stuffy nose. Solution: Suck it up. It will pass.
  3. Problem: You can’t sleep. Solution: Try a bottle of wine and some Leno. His jokes put me to sleep every time.
  4. Problem: You have allergies. Solution: That hammer still lying around? Seasons will change soon enough.
  5. Problem: You have a blister. Solution: Ever heard of gloves?
  6. Problem: You have an aching body. Solution: Stop doing the thing that makes your body ache.

See how simple that was? And it didn’t even cost you a trip to the store or God forbid — interaction with another human being.

Great Deal or Tiny Torture Device?

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Who doesn’t love a good sale? Better yet, who doesn’t love stumbling across a much-desired item for less than half of its original price?

Such was the case for me last Friday while out doing a little retail therapy. I have been looking—actively looking—for a certain type of brown sandals for over a month now. They’re simple and I saw them everywhere this summer so I figured they wouldn’t be hard to find. More wrong I could not have been.

I made sure to check the shoe department everywhere I went, but no dice. Although, up until 2 weeks ago, I had kept my search somewhat casual. So last weekend, I decided it was time to ratchet it up a notch now that the fall fashions are appearing and the summer sales are in full swing. Still nothing.

So I gave up and bought a cream-colored pair instead. They are cute… just not exactly what I wanted. Then this past Friday while shopping for something else entirely… there they were. The brown sandals. The EXACT brown sandals that I have been coveting for at least 6 weeks now. And they were on clearance. And they were my size. And they were P E R F E C T.

When I returned home, Lee was curious to see what I had purchased, so I showed him. But when I got around to pulling the shoes out of the bag, he just looked at them and said: “Those look like the most uncomfortable shoes in the world. They look like a form of torture.” I told him he had no idea what he was talking about. These sandals were absolutely comfortable and just my size.

That is, until I wore them to work for the very first time.

Let it be known that it is never a good sign if your new shoes are hurting you while on the drive TO work. Also a bad sign might be that the very thought of them on your feet conjures up crazy imaginings of Chinese foot binding. I’m not joking. Poor, little Chinese girls were all I could think about on the drive to work.

I guess strutting around in front of a shoe mirror for 2 seconds in the store because they look exactly like the thing you’ve been searching high and low for … AND they are just your size … AND they are on clearance … doesn’t mean jack to your toes… or your heels… or your ankles.

The harmless-looking, vile offenders. Cute aren't they?