Where is Santa when you need him?
Instead of sitting his furry red and white self down on an oversized armchair in the center of the mall, he could be making himself useful by helping harried shoppers with their Christmas lists. Like, oh, say for example, me.
This year, we all decided to chip in and get my sister a new set of pots and pans (do we know how to celebrate or what? Paaartay!), and since everyone was coming to our house, I volunteered to buy it and wrap it (Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! That's what younger siblings are for!)
And so, on a random Tuesday in December, I found myself at Macy's scoping out the sales without have put the necessary forethought into the whole process.
"Big sale today. 25% off," the saleswoman displayed the cookware sets as though she was a Kringle with a bagful of toys.
"Just looking," I resisted the lure of the shiny silver pots and pans with their beautiful, glossy black non-stick cooking surfaces.
"I'm not supposed to do this," she whispered, leaning in and pulling a handful of coupons out of her pocket while looking over her shoulder for the Burgermeister, "but I can give you an additional 20% off."
That was a good deal, but remembering that I was parked at the other end of the mall, one floor down, and this was not a small gift, I played coy.
"I'll also give you a bonus pot and 7-piece set of utensils. Free," she coaxed.
Who was I kidding? She had me at 'sale'. Like a kid in Sombertown who was just offered the toy of her dreams, I plucked the coupon from her fingers and charged toward the register whipping out my credit card before the Winter Warlock could wave his magic wand and make the sale go away.
Now, while the guy in the red suit has eight big, strong reindeer pulling his rather sizable self in a sleigh, I didn't even have a misfit toy to help me schlepp my cookware to the car. Undaunted, because, after all, this was the season of miracles, I piled bags and boxes into my arms until I resembled Max, the Grinch's dog after their midnight trip to Whoville, and started off.
Stopping every five minutes to rearrange bags and boxes as though there was a good way to carry eighty-six items through a crowded mall, I made my snail-like progress toward where my car was parked. Where was Hermey, the elf, when you needed him?
I suppose it was because I was moving so slowly and therefore made an easy target, that the Abominable Kiosk People attacked.
"Would you like a free sample of our product?" one guy called out to me cheerily, obviously mistaking my Scrooge-like scowl as a positive sign of interest in the snake-oil he was hustling.
"Seriously? Do you not see the eight tons of crap I am carrying? Where would you suggest I put it? Oh. Wait. I have the perfect place. Just let me wiggle my middle finger free and I'll show you."
He scuttled out of my way faster than Bob Cratchet after asking for a raise.
"Can I ask you a question?" another guy planted himself in my path, obviously believing I had goodwill toward my fellow man.
"You just did," I bared my teeth at him in Grinchy fashion, and tried to sidestep.
"No. Really. I just want to know....." the rest of his infomercial pitch died on his lips as I narrowed my eyes and channelled Ebenezer once more.
"Seriously? Do you really expect me to stop, put down all eighty kajillion Christmas gifts that I have strapped, tied and piled onto every part of myself and talk to you about...what is it you're selling? add more that I can't carry and try to make it to the car without killing myself or someone else? Really?"
His self-preservation instinct finally kicked in and he backed away as though he had just seen the open grave from the ghost of Christmas future.
Fortunately for them, the next two kioskers took one look at my less than holly jolly face and decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and melted away like Frosty on a hot July day.
Finally though, I made it to the car with the gifts, my back and most of my sanity intact. I have, however, decided that next year, should I be stupid enough to go in on a group gift again, I am going to have Rudolph with his nose so bright run interference for me.
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Friday, January 13, 2012
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
I Should Have Stayed in Bed
Saturday morning, I got up, filled with hope that it would be a good day. Not. Even. Close.
Tim is addicted to Starbucks coffee (okay, I am too, but I settle for the home brew, his highness has to have the real McCoy), so since he is recovering from knee surgery, I decided to raise his spirits by running out and getting a couple of ventis.
As I headed down the steps into the garage, I half-turned to talk to the dog (I know, I know, but these days, she is the only one who will listen to me whine) and slipped down the last two steps, landing right on my butt on the 2x4 that makes up the one side of the stairs. Not. Good.
As I sat astride the plank, educating Chloe to every swear word I know and wishing that I spoke another language so I could teach her even more swear words, all I could think was: Unless Chloe can carry me into the house or dial 911, I am going to die here. In the garage. Sitting on the steps. In my PJ top, sweats and Tim's jacket (hey, it's a look), while Tim mummifies up in the bed, just steps away from the phone he can't reach.
Days from now, someone will say,"Whatever happened to the Sinclairs?" and then a neighbor will call about a bad smell and an unusual amount of flies swarming around the house.
I began to wonder if I could teach Chloe how to bark, "My mom has fallen and she can't get up" in Morse Code, but then I realized I didn't have any treats, so...that wasn't going to happen. Besides, I don't actually know Morse code, so it probably wouldn't have worked anyway.
As I moved on to more positive scenarios in my head of Tim and I side by side in bed (like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber), splitting a bag of ice and alternating the use of the heating pad, competing over who can do more leg lifts in PT, battling for control of the remote, fighting over whose turn it was to use the walker, and duking it out over the last Percoset, I realized that I was not only going to survive, but that I could actually walk again.
I grudgingly decided to forge ahead with my mission, and drove to Starbucks where I ordered three ventis. (Hey, I not only needed two, I deserved them at this point). The woman poured one , plunked it down on the counter and walked away while the other woman rang it up.
"Venti?" she said.
Duh. A. You were standing six inches away when I ordered it, B. If you work here and don't know which cup is a venti, then you are probably too stupid to even be breathing, and C. (this I said aloud) "Yes. Three."
I even held up three fingers which she ignored while she blithely rang up the one.
"Twelve thousand dollars," she announced (This was Starbucks, after all)
"I need three," I reiterated, but made the mistake of handing her the money for all of them.
"Oh. Uh." She looked from the money to the register as though I had handed her a Rubik's cube and asked her to solve it while simultaneously explaining Einstein's theory of relativity in German.
"Why don't you just charge me for the one, then ring up two more," I suggested, almost, but not quite able to stop rolling my eyes.
"Um..."
Apparently, my suggestion was not computing in her razor-sharp mind, but like a dog with a bone, she was not going to give up. (If I wave a white flag, will you do the same? Pretty please with cream and sugar on top? How about if I just cry?)
Fifteen excruciatingly painful minutes later, I stumbled out of the Starbucks with my three ventis, and maybe the correct change, but I couldn't see past the tears in my eyes to count it as I wept for the future.
Thinking that taking the dog for a nice long walk would clear my mind and help me shake off the morning's events, I grabbed her leash and we headed out. (Okay, I actually thought that crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over my head would help, but I was guilted into the walk by a pair of big, brown eyes and a cute little button nose).
We got exactly halfway around the block when nature called and Chloe squatted in some leaves. I leaned down with my little baggie at the ready, but couldn't find anything...because it was stuck to her furry little backside. Eewww.
And to make the experience even better and more memorable, she plopped her little butt down on the pavement before I could stop her and I had a poopy puppy.
Somehow, yelling "NO!" For all that is holy STOP!!" after the fact seemed a bit useless, so I settled for pounding my head against the pavement and ripping out significant chunks of hair.
After carrying her the rest of the way home in order to limit the damage (to her, but apparently not my sweatshirt), I plunked her in the tub to try and scrub off eight pounds of dog poo (Seriously, how can something that small poop out that much?). I had barely begun when the phone rang.
"Can you get that?" Tim yelled in to me.
Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.
Tim is addicted to Starbucks coffee (okay, I am too, but I settle for the home brew, his highness has to have the real McCoy), so since he is recovering from knee surgery, I decided to raise his spirits by running out and getting a couple of ventis.
As I headed down the steps into the garage, I half-turned to talk to the dog (I know, I know, but these days, she is the only one who will listen to me whine) and slipped down the last two steps, landing right on my butt on the 2x4 that makes up the one side of the stairs. Not. Good.
As I sat astride the plank, educating Chloe to every swear word I know and wishing that I spoke another language so I could teach her even more swear words, all I could think was: Unless Chloe can carry me into the house or dial 911, I am going to die here. In the garage. Sitting on the steps. In my PJ top, sweats and Tim's jacket (hey, it's a look), while Tim mummifies up in the bed, just steps away from the phone he can't reach.
Days from now, someone will say,"Whatever happened to the Sinclairs?" and then a neighbor will call about a bad smell and an unusual amount of flies swarming around the house.
I began to wonder if I could teach Chloe how to bark, "My mom has fallen and she can't get up" in Morse Code, but then I realized I didn't have any treats, so...that wasn't going to happen. Besides, I don't actually know Morse code, so it probably wouldn't have worked anyway.
As I moved on to more positive scenarios in my head of Tim and I side by side in bed (like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber), splitting a bag of ice and alternating the use of the heating pad, competing over who can do more leg lifts in PT, battling for control of the remote, fighting over whose turn it was to use the walker, and duking it out over the last Percoset, I realized that I was not only going to survive, but that I could actually walk again.
I grudgingly decided to forge ahead with my mission, and drove to Starbucks where I ordered three ventis. (Hey, I not only needed two, I deserved them at this point). The woman poured one , plunked it down on the counter and walked away while the other woman rang it up.
"Venti?" she said.
Duh. A. You were standing six inches away when I ordered it, B. If you work here and don't know which cup is a venti, then you are probably too stupid to even be breathing, and C. (this I said aloud) "Yes. Three."
I even held up three fingers which she ignored while she blithely rang up the one.
"Twelve thousand dollars," she announced (This was Starbucks, after all)
"I need three," I reiterated, but made the mistake of handing her the money for all of them.
"Oh. Uh." She looked from the money to the register as though I had handed her a Rubik's cube and asked her to solve it while simultaneously explaining Einstein's theory of relativity in German.
"Why don't you just charge me for the one, then ring up two more," I suggested, almost, but not quite able to stop rolling my eyes.
"Um..."
Apparently, my suggestion was not computing in her razor-sharp mind, but like a dog with a bone, she was not going to give up. (If I wave a white flag, will you do the same? Pretty please with cream and sugar on top? How about if I just cry?)
Fifteen excruciatingly painful minutes later, I stumbled out of the Starbucks with my three ventis, and maybe the correct change, but I couldn't see past the tears in my eyes to count it as I wept for the future.
Thinking that taking the dog for a nice long walk would clear my mind and help me shake off the morning's events, I grabbed her leash and we headed out. (Okay, I actually thought that crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over my head would help, but I was guilted into the walk by a pair of big, brown eyes and a cute little button nose).
We got exactly halfway around the block when nature called and Chloe squatted in some leaves. I leaned down with my little baggie at the ready, but couldn't find anything...because it was stuck to her furry little backside. Eewww.
And to make the experience even better and more memorable, she plopped her little butt down on the pavement before I could stop her and I had a poopy puppy.
Somehow, yelling "NO!" For all that is holy STOP!!" after the fact seemed a bit useless, so I settled for pounding my head against the pavement and ripping out significant chunks of hair.
After carrying her the rest of the way home in order to limit the damage (to her, but apparently not my sweatshirt), I plunked her in the tub to try and scrub off eight pounds of dog poo (Seriously, how can something that small poop out that much?). I had barely begun when the phone rang.
"Can you get that?" Tim yelled in to me.
Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Shedding Some Light on Things
A few days ago we were changing a light bulb in the ceiling when it dropped on the ground and broke. And so began the saga.
First of all, it was one of those new, corkscrew bulbs, which I vaguely remembered hearing contained something dangerous, but bought because they were all I could find at the time. "Don't break them, ever, because it's really, really bad" was the gist of some story I saw on one of those news shows with a number in the title. Since I kind of make it a rule to never purposely smash new light bulbs, I guess I didn't pay as much attention as I should have to the story.
So now, with visions of hazmat teams dancing through my head, I grabbed the box and scanned it for some helpful advice, or at least a skull and crossbones symbol. Despite the tons of teeny, tiny writing, there was nothing on the box to indicate that we should be at defcon 10, so Tim began to sweep up the mess.
Unable to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach, I grabbed my ipad and googled the bulbs. I mean, why did the news story I remembered promise consequences like growing an extra toe, sprouting purple hair out of my naval, or glowing in the dark if it was no big deal to break a bulb? Meanwhile, Tim hauled out the vacuum.
One or two searches later, I found what I was looking for...Danger! Danger! One website screamed at me. Handle these bulbs with the utmost caution because they contain mercury. However, it went on, if you are truly stupid enough to ever break one, here is what you must NEVER do:
1. Sweep it up
2. Vacuum it up.
Goodie, we were two for two. I could feel that third eye trying to sprout, and was Tim looking a little iridescent?
3. Do not place in the garbage.
I glanced over at Tim. Oops. Too late on that one as well. Three for three. Lucky us. We should play the lotto. I continued reading, hoping for at least a small ray of light that wasn't nuclear at the end of the tunnel.
4. Open all the windows and leave the premises for fifteen minutes.
I checked my watch. More good news. We had about two minutes left of the fifteen.
Deciding I didn't want to know that we should have run screaming into the night and not returned without gas masks, protective eye wear and a rubber suit, I closed my ipad, picked up my now five-legged dog and swore I would never buy those bulbs again.
The next day, I went to Home Depot, grabbed the biggest shopping cart I could find and headed for the light bulb aisle. Not wanting to make yet another unfortunate choice, I asked the first guy I saw for help, outlining the whole pitiful story.
He tried to sell me a new kitchen.
When I insisted that all I was interested in was light bulbs, he reluctantly went off to get someone who specialized in that area. Okaaaay.
Turns out the guy he called must have dropped out of Light Bulb U, because he had to call someone else as soon as I mentioned the word dimmable. The next guy was apparently no Rhodes scholar either, because he grabbed the nearest bulb and shoved it at me with a definite 'deer in the headlights' look.
Meanwhile, the first guy came back and said, "You're not buying those are you? They're too cheap. You should buy some good ones."
Excuse me? Um. You had your chance, and palmed me off on dumb and dumber who told me to get these.
"Have you gone to Walmart or Cosco?" he pressed. "That's where I buy mine."
I looked around for the hidden camera.
"No, really," he continued, "and if you can't change the bulbs, don't just buy more, I'll come over and do it for you."
Okay. So now you've gone from odd to creepy, all in one easy step.
"I think my husband and I can handle it." I began to sidle away, looking for the lighting expert, or even the guy with a PhD in plungers to help me make a clean getaway.
"Well, you're not supposed to drop the bulbs," he countered.
Really??!! Wow. I wish somebody had told me that years ago. Imagine. I've been doing it wrong all this time. So you're saying that when I take it out of the box, I'm not supposed to throw the bulb on the floor before screwing it in?
I escaped to the Christmas aisle, hoping to lose him in the maze of pre-lit trees before he could open his mouth again and either tick me off or creep me out.
As I peeked around the corner to see if the coast was clear and I could make it to the check-out without an offer to swap out the batteries in my smoke detectors, a third guy approached to offer help. What was it, a slow day at Home Depot?
"I see you've got a lot of light bulbs there," he motioned to my over-filled cart (I wasn't kidding when I said I would never use those new bulbs again). "We have some better ones than that. Here, I'll show you."
Gee thanks. Where were you five minutes ago when I needed you?
He then proceeded to give me an in-depth analysis of every light bulb they carried and a one-on-one comparison of brands, sizes, voltages, wattage, and type of light emitted. I learned about how the old bulbs are being phased out and the time schedule for phasing in the new type. This was not only a 'specialist', this was a true 'expert'. Maybe even a professor, like on Gilligan's Island . Wow.
I stayed with him through the BR30 vs BR40 lecture, but drifted off somewhere between learning that IKEA makes lamps that will only use their bulbs and how much jail time you'll have to do if you are caught selling the 'old' bulbs after a certain date.
Just as I was contemplating 'accidentally' smashing a few dozen bulbs as a distraction so I could escape, another poor, unfortunate soul approached with a question.
I was able to make a clean getaway before I had to listen to 'The Complete History of the Light Bulb' in French, and made a solemn vow to myself to order bulbs online from now on.
First of all, it was one of those new, corkscrew bulbs, which I vaguely remembered hearing contained something dangerous, but bought because they were all I could find at the time. "Don't break them, ever, because it's really, really bad" was the gist of some story I saw on one of those news shows with a number in the title. Since I kind of make it a rule to never purposely smash new light bulbs, I guess I didn't pay as much attention as I should have to the story.
So now, with visions of hazmat teams dancing through my head, I grabbed the box and scanned it for some helpful advice, or at least a skull and crossbones symbol. Despite the tons of teeny, tiny writing, there was nothing on the box to indicate that we should be at defcon 10, so Tim began to sweep up the mess.
Unable to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach, I grabbed my ipad and googled the bulbs. I mean, why did the news story I remembered promise consequences like growing an extra toe, sprouting purple hair out of my naval, or glowing in the dark if it was no big deal to break a bulb? Meanwhile, Tim hauled out the vacuum.
One or two searches later, I found what I was looking for...Danger! Danger! One website screamed at me. Handle these bulbs with the utmost caution because they contain mercury. However, it went on, if you are truly stupid enough to ever break one, here is what you must NEVER do:
1. Sweep it up
2. Vacuum it up.
Goodie, we were two for two. I could feel that third eye trying to sprout, and was Tim looking a little iridescent?
3. Do not place in the garbage.
I glanced over at Tim. Oops. Too late on that one as well. Three for three. Lucky us. We should play the lotto. I continued reading, hoping for at least a small ray of light that wasn't nuclear at the end of the tunnel.
4. Open all the windows and leave the premises for fifteen minutes.
I checked my watch. More good news. We had about two minutes left of the fifteen.
Deciding I didn't want to know that we should have run screaming into the night and not returned without gas masks, protective eye wear and a rubber suit, I closed my ipad, picked up my now five-legged dog and swore I would never buy those bulbs again.
The next day, I went to Home Depot, grabbed the biggest shopping cart I could find and headed for the light bulb aisle. Not wanting to make yet another unfortunate choice, I asked the first guy I saw for help, outlining the whole pitiful story.
He tried to sell me a new kitchen.
When I insisted that all I was interested in was light bulbs, he reluctantly went off to get someone who specialized in that area. Okaaaay.
Turns out the guy he called must have dropped out of Light Bulb U, because he had to call someone else as soon as I mentioned the word dimmable. The next guy was apparently no Rhodes scholar either, because he grabbed the nearest bulb and shoved it at me with a definite 'deer in the headlights' look.
Meanwhile, the first guy came back and said, "You're not buying those are you? They're too cheap. You should buy some good ones."
Excuse me? Um. You had your chance, and palmed me off on dumb and dumber who told me to get these.
"Have you gone to Walmart or Cosco?" he pressed. "That's where I buy mine."
I looked around for the hidden camera.
"No, really," he continued, "and if you can't change the bulbs, don't just buy more, I'll come over and do it for you."
Okay. So now you've gone from odd to creepy, all in one easy step.
"I think my husband and I can handle it." I began to sidle away, looking for the lighting expert, or even the guy with a PhD in plungers to help me make a clean getaway.
"Well, you're not supposed to drop the bulbs," he countered.
Really??!! Wow. I wish somebody had told me that years ago. Imagine. I've been doing it wrong all this time. So you're saying that when I take it out of the box, I'm not supposed to throw the bulb on the floor before screwing it in?
I escaped to the Christmas aisle, hoping to lose him in the maze of pre-lit trees before he could open his mouth again and either tick me off or creep me out.
As I peeked around the corner to see if the coast was clear and I could make it to the check-out without an offer to swap out the batteries in my smoke detectors, a third guy approached to offer help. What was it, a slow day at Home Depot?
"I see you've got a lot of light bulbs there," he motioned to my over-filled cart (I wasn't kidding when I said I would never use those new bulbs again). "We have some better ones than that. Here, I'll show you."
Gee thanks. Where were you five minutes ago when I needed you?
He then proceeded to give me an in-depth analysis of every light bulb they carried and a one-on-one comparison of brands, sizes, voltages, wattage, and type of light emitted. I learned about how the old bulbs are being phased out and the time schedule for phasing in the new type. This was not only a 'specialist', this was a true 'expert'. Maybe even a professor, like on Gilligan's Island . Wow.
I stayed with him through the BR30 vs BR40 lecture, but drifted off somewhere between learning that IKEA makes lamps that will only use their bulbs and how much jail time you'll have to do if you are caught selling the 'old' bulbs after a certain date.
Just as I was contemplating 'accidentally' smashing a few dozen bulbs as a distraction so I could escape, another poor, unfortunate soul approached with a question.
I was able to make a clean getaway before I had to listen to 'The Complete History of the Light Bulb' in French, and made a solemn vow to myself to order bulbs online from now on.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
I Am Officially Old
As we celebrated out 24th wedding anniversary last month, Tim held my hands, gazed deeply into my eyes and said, "Do you realize that your parents were only two years older than we are now when we got married?"
And they say romance is dead.
Thinking he couldn't possibly be right, I did some quick mental calculations, pulled out our wedding album, double checked our birth certificates, and registered at Ancestry.com. I vividly remember my parents being old when we got married. There was no way they could have been as young as we are now.
I remember them regularly falling asleep on the couch, staying home on Friday and Saturday nights to watch TV, and needing glasses and a 3000 watt bulb to read anything. They didn't "get" why everyone from David Cassidy to Don Johnson was cool and Frank Sinatra and Van Johnson weren't. (Really?! Frank actually had teenage groupies? Aww. C'mon. You're making that up.) And they absolutely, positively did not share our appreciation of Aerosmith, Meatloaf or anybody who recorded a song after 1963.
I mean, yes, maybe we occasionally might possibly rest our eyes for a few minutes while watching TV, but we don't ever fall asleep. And perhaps we don't feel a pressing need to be out every weekend, especially if there is some kind of showdown on the Food Network or a really cool item shows up on Pawn Stars. As for reading glasses? Well, if they would stop "Micro"-ing everything these days, we'd be fine. Just because the microchip caught on doesn't mean they have to print everything in minuscule font.
We are still young, hip and cool. We not only know who Lady Gaga is, we have her on our ipods and at least one of us knows who Selina Gomez and Demi Lovato are. We still go to concerts (Okay, so our last concert was Marvin Hamlish and the last movie we saw starred the Chipmunks, but that still counts. Right?)
I actually had myself convinced that, despite hard evidence to the contrary, Tim was wrong, wrong, wrong. And then I went back-to-school shopping with our niece last weekend.
Now, years ago when the older kids first discovered Abercrombie and Fitch, I gritted my teeth and went with them. (Seriously? You want how much for a shirt that looks like the one I threw in the rag bag last week?) Ten minutes later, I stumbled out with a migraine and severely irritated nasal passages, swearing I would never, ever subject myself to that again.
But that didn't mean I was old. Sure the music was loud and the staff all between the ages of 16 and 16 1/2. Yes, the scent they pumped out with each beat of the music was nauseating, but that irritated lots of people, not just me. Pretty much every parent felt the same, and they were not all old like my parents were when I was in school.
So this weekend, when we took my niece to the mall, and she wanted to go to Abercrombie Kids, my initial instinct was to recoil violently and make Tim go it alone. Then I reminded myself that I am not old. Besides, this was the young kids store, so surely it would be more user friendly for parents and young aunts and uncles. So I grudgingly, but hopefully went in.
And that is when I discovered that I was old. Very old.
Not only did they play the worst music I have ever in my life heard, they played it at ear-splitting volume through sixty-seven thousand speakers that were tucked into every nook, crevice and corner. Standing next to a jet engine during take-off would be quieter.
Did they not realize that while that may be acceptable in their teenager store where the kids don't want their parents helping select clothes, it was the parents who were doing the shopping here? Seriously, who is going to give their eight-year old a credit card and say, "Go for it kid."?
I lasted as long as I could. Honestly. And it was the longest thirty seconds of my life. As I bolted for the door and the lovely, quiet heavy metal music playing throughout the mall, one of the sweet, young twelve-year-old sales clerks asked if she could help me find anything. (Of course, she had to repeat the question several times, finally using a megaphone before I could hear her over the cacophony of sounds).
"Yes," I bellowed back, without stopping my mad dash for freedom, "my sense of hearing."
We went to GapKids and finished shopping. Then, I picked up some brochures on retirement communities for Tim and myself.
And they say romance is dead.
Thinking he couldn't possibly be right, I did some quick mental calculations, pulled out our wedding album, double checked our birth certificates, and registered at Ancestry.com. I vividly remember my parents being old when we got married. There was no way they could have been as young as we are now.
I remember them regularly falling asleep on the couch, staying home on Friday and Saturday nights to watch TV, and needing glasses and a 3000 watt bulb to read anything. They didn't "get" why everyone from David Cassidy to Don Johnson was cool and Frank Sinatra and Van Johnson weren't. (Really?! Frank actually had teenage groupies? Aww. C'mon. You're making that up.) And they absolutely, positively did not share our appreciation of Aerosmith, Meatloaf or anybody who recorded a song after 1963.
I mean, yes, maybe we occasionally might possibly rest our eyes for a few minutes while watching TV, but we don't ever fall asleep. And perhaps we don't feel a pressing need to be out every weekend, especially if there is some kind of showdown on the Food Network or a really cool item shows up on Pawn Stars. As for reading glasses? Well, if they would stop "Micro"-ing everything these days, we'd be fine. Just because the microchip caught on doesn't mean they have to print everything in minuscule font.
We are still young, hip and cool. We not only know who Lady Gaga is, we have her on our ipods and at least one of us knows who Selina Gomez and Demi Lovato are. We still go to concerts (Okay, so our last concert was Marvin Hamlish and the last movie we saw starred the Chipmunks, but that still counts. Right?)
I actually had myself convinced that, despite hard evidence to the contrary, Tim was wrong, wrong, wrong. And then I went back-to-school shopping with our niece last weekend.
Now, years ago when the older kids first discovered Abercrombie and Fitch, I gritted my teeth and went with them. (Seriously? You want how much for a shirt that looks like the one I threw in the rag bag last week?) Ten minutes later, I stumbled out with a migraine and severely irritated nasal passages, swearing I would never, ever subject myself to that again.
But that didn't mean I was old. Sure the music was loud and the staff all between the ages of 16 and 16 1/2. Yes, the scent they pumped out with each beat of the music was nauseating, but that irritated lots of people, not just me. Pretty much every parent felt the same, and they were not all old like my parents were when I was in school.
So this weekend, when we took my niece to the mall, and she wanted to go to Abercrombie Kids, my initial instinct was to recoil violently and make Tim go it alone. Then I reminded myself that I am not old. Besides, this was the young kids store, so surely it would be more user friendly for parents and young aunts and uncles. So I grudgingly, but hopefully went in.
And that is when I discovered that I was old. Very old.
Not only did they play the worst music I have ever in my life heard, they played it at ear-splitting volume through sixty-seven thousand speakers that were tucked into every nook, crevice and corner. Standing next to a jet engine during take-off would be quieter.
Did they not realize that while that may be acceptable in their teenager store where the kids don't want their parents helping select clothes, it was the parents who were doing the shopping here? Seriously, who is going to give their eight-year old a credit card and say, "Go for it kid."?
I lasted as long as I could. Honestly. And it was the longest thirty seconds of my life. As I bolted for the door and the lovely, quiet heavy metal music playing throughout the mall, one of the sweet, young twelve-year-old sales clerks asked if she could help me find anything. (Of course, she had to repeat the question several times, finally using a megaphone before I could hear her over the cacophony of sounds).
"Yes," I bellowed back, without stopping my mad dash for freedom, "my sense of hearing."
We went to GapKids and finished shopping. Then, I picked up some brochures on retirement communities for Tim and myself.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Key to Younger-looking Skin...Stay out of the Drugstore
My sister recently celebrated her fortieth birthday, and I had to share the ugly truth with her. Forty is not the new thirty.
At thirty, I could use one soap for both my body and my face. I didn't shed skin like a snake, and collagen was just a word, not a way of life.
Getting older turns a simple trip to the drugstore for something as seemingly innocuous as soap and moisturizer into a fact-finding mission that would put a congressional junket to shame.
Although my mother faithfully promised me when I was eleven and breaking out that my skin would clear up by the time I was eighteen, she was wrong. And so I stand in the "soap" aisle, pull out my reading glasses, and try to find something oil-free. But wait. I also have wrinkles and lines. So I need something moisturizing. But wait. If I moisturize too much, I'll break out.
And how do I know if I have wrinkles or deep wrinkles? The actress in the picture doesn't look like she has any wrinkles, so which product is she using, and was the photo taken before or after she had the plastic surgery?
And what's the difference between wrinkles and lines? Do I need three different soaps: one for acne, a second for wrinkles and yet a third for lines?
And what about an exfoliant? That seems to be a necessity. According to the bottles, if I simply exfoliate, I will uncover younger-looking skin. So maybe I should buy a tube of that. But how many layers will I have to scrub away before I don't need the wrinkle formula anymore? And will I actually have any skin left?
No matter how much the face wash does for me though, I'm not out of the woods yet. I still need to further moisturize, protect, repair, replenish and defend. Washington had to do less prep work to cross the Delaware.
First, I need to fill in the craters and crevices I wasn't able to sand-blast away with the soap by using products that tout collagen, spackle, latex or silly-putty. I have to bo-toxify my forehead, eyes and nose and mouth areas.
There are nighttime formulas and daytime formulas, which are not interchangeable. Apparently, "regenerating" can only be done under cover of darkness. The way the ingredients work is so top secret that if we were to wear them during the day and see the progress being made, it would be the end of civilization as we know it.
There are creams for the eyes, balms for the lips, and oils, gels and lotions for the face. Eyes need to be de-puffed, lips puffed, cheeks plumped, jowls firmed, eyebrows lifted and pores minimized. And all that is before you discover that you really need products that are SPF 145 as well.
Once you have dotted, blended, smoothed, soothed and coated your face to give the temporary illusion of youth (yeah, like I'm going to get carded the next time I go to a bar because my moisturizer has four ingredients ending in "-plex") it's time to move on to the body soaps.
Here too, there is a dizzying array of issues that need to be addressed. Moisturizing or "intensive" moisturizing? If I do the intensive now, what will be left for me when I'm fifty, or sixty? Where do you go from there? Jiffy Lube?
I can also exfoliate here too, but none of these are as "gentle" as the face scrubs. There are heavy duty, sand-blasting formulas with shards of razor-sharp pellets of...salt?...gravel?...steel?
Many products also boast a "firming" formula, which is good, but once again, I have serious doubts my skin will look like the model's without at least ten strategically placed rubber bands and twelve or so paperclips.
And then there are the different scents. Do I want to smell like a pear, a peach, or a mango? How about a strawberry rhubarb apple pie, or a blueberry plum cobbler? Am I supposed to eat it or wear it? That might be taking the whole inner beauty thing a bit far.
Maybe I want to smell like an orchid though or a rose. Lavender is good and it will relax me, so I can fall asleep faster. But wait. Do I want to fall asleep in the shower? Didn't I just get up? And if I choose hibiscus shower gel, will it clash with my tuti-frutti scented moisturizer? Because no matter how much "moisturizer" is in the soap, I still need to apply a thick coating of moisturizer if I don't want my skin to look like it belongs on an alligator.
Once again, I can firm, moisturize and exfoliate as well as perfume myself silly. But this product also has to be non-greasy, non-comedogenic, hypo-allergenic, fast-absorbing, clinically proven, long-lasting, organic, more filling, better tasting, low-fat, low carb, and high in fiber. Oh, and it has to give me a natural glow in three to five days. And get rid of cellulite. And promote world peace. Is that too much to ask?
By the time I have scrutinized each and every label, brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed in thought, I have created a whole new set of lines, wrinkles and bags to be dealt with. Maybe the secret is that when you turn forty, you should just head to the nearest baking aisle and a large can of Crisco.
At thirty, I could use one soap for both my body and my face. I didn't shed skin like a snake, and collagen was just a word, not a way of life.
Getting older turns a simple trip to the drugstore for something as seemingly innocuous as soap and moisturizer into a fact-finding mission that would put a congressional junket to shame.
Although my mother faithfully promised me when I was eleven and breaking out that my skin would clear up by the time I was eighteen, she was wrong. And so I stand in the "soap" aisle, pull out my reading glasses, and try to find something oil-free. But wait. I also have wrinkles and lines. So I need something moisturizing. But wait. If I moisturize too much, I'll break out.
And how do I know if I have wrinkles or deep wrinkles? The actress in the picture doesn't look like she has any wrinkles, so which product is she using, and was the photo taken before or after she had the plastic surgery?
And what's the difference between wrinkles and lines? Do I need three different soaps: one for acne, a second for wrinkles and yet a third for lines?
And what about an exfoliant? That seems to be a necessity. According to the bottles, if I simply exfoliate, I will uncover younger-looking skin. So maybe I should buy a tube of that. But how many layers will I have to scrub away before I don't need the wrinkle formula anymore? And will I actually have any skin left?
No matter how much the face wash does for me though, I'm not out of the woods yet. I still need to further moisturize, protect, repair, replenish and defend. Washington had to do less prep work to cross the Delaware.
First, I need to fill in the craters and crevices I wasn't able to sand-blast away with the soap by using products that tout collagen, spackle, latex or silly-putty. I have to bo-toxify my forehead, eyes and nose and mouth areas.
There are nighttime formulas and daytime formulas, which are not interchangeable. Apparently, "regenerating" can only be done under cover of darkness. The way the ingredients work is so top secret that if we were to wear them during the day and see the progress being made, it would be the end of civilization as we know it.
There are creams for the eyes, balms for the lips, and oils, gels and lotions for the face. Eyes need to be de-puffed, lips puffed, cheeks plumped, jowls firmed, eyebrows lifted and pores minimized. And all that is before you discover that you really need products that are SPF 145 as well.
Once you have dotted, blended, smoothed, soothed and coated your face to give the temporary illusion of youth (yeah, like I'm going to get carded the next time I go to a bar because my moisturizer has four ingredients ending in "-plex") it's time to move on to the body soaps.
Here too, there is a dizzying array of issues that need to be addressed. Moisturizing or "intensive" moisturizing? If I do the intensive now, what will be left for me when I'm fifty, or sixty? Where do you go from there? Jiffy Lube?
I can also exfoliate here too, but none of these are as "gentle" as the face scrubs. There are heavy duty, sand-blasting formulas with shards of razor-sharp pellets of...salt?...gravel?...steel?
Many products also boast a "firming" formula, which is good, but once again, I have serious doubts my skin will look like the model's without at least ten strategically placed rubber bands and twelve or so paperclips.
And then there are the different scents. Do I want to smell like a pear, a peach, or a mango? How about a strawberry rhubarb apple pie, or a blueberry plum cobbler? Am I supposed to eat it or wear it? That might be taking the whole inner beauty thing a bit far.
Maybe I want to smell like an orchid though or a rose. Lavender is good and it will relax me, so I can fall asleep faster. But wait. Do I want to fall asleep in the shower? Didn't I just get up? And if I choose hibiscus shower gel, will it clash with my tuti-frutti scented moisturizer? Because no matter how much "moisturizer" is in the soap, I still need to apply a thick coating of moisturizer if I don't want my skin to look like it belongs on an alligator.
Once again, I can firm, moisturize and exfoliate as well as perfume myself silly. But this product also has to be non-greasy, non-comedogenic, hypo-allergenic, fast-absorbing, clinically proven, long-lasting, organic, more filling, better tasting, low-fat, low carb, and high in fiber. Oh, and it has to give me a natural glow in three to five days. And get rid of cellulite. And promote world peace. Is that too much to ask?
By the time I have scrutinized each and every label, brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed in thought, I have created a whole new set of lines, wrinkles and bags to be dealt with. Maybe the secret is that when you turn forty, you should just head to the nearest baking aisle and a large can of Crisco.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
...Again
It's true. Machines hate me. Near as I can figure, there must be some sort of networking site they are all hooked into that allows them to trade info on me and figure out how to make my life more difficult.
The latest machine to join forces with all the other evil machines in my life is the self-checkout counter at Home Depot.
The other day, I ran in to pick up three items. Three lousy little items. Naturally, they only had two check-out lanes open, both of which had lines that extended into the next state. Par for the course.
Why they even put in more than two or three lanes, I'll never know, because that's all that are ever open. Do they really think that taunting people who are holding hammers, saws and other assorted lethal tools with closed lanes is the smart thing to do?
Miraculously, the self-checkout lane seemed to be moving at a turtle's pace instead of a snail's, so I got in that line. Faster than you can recite volumes one to six of the Encyclopedia Britannica, I was at one of the machines swiping my first item. Beep. Into the bag it went. Second item. Beep. Also, into the bag. Third item. Beep. Onto the counter it went since the box was too big to bag.
And there is where the big 'ole fly landed smack in the ointment. The payment machine registered the item, but the large screen did not and the voice kept telling me to place the item back on the scanner.
Great. Dueling machines. Now they were no longer content to come after me one at a time. They were tag-teaming me.
I looked around for help from a store employee that did not have a computer chip running them. Several minutes of frantically waving my arms as though I were guiding a 747 in for a landing on aisle four finally attracted the attention of an employee who came over to see what the fuss was about.
"You didn't scan the last item," she explained patiently.
I pointed to the machine which indicated I had. She pointed to the checkout screen which said I hadn't.
Again, I pointed to the machine which said I had. Hey lady, just so you know, I can do this for quite a while before my arm gets tired. But something about the way I was baring my teeth at her must have made her rethink the whole competition thing, and she took out a passkey, scanned it, pushed some buttons, and indicated I should try...again.
There. That was all I wanted. Now was that so hard? I may not have said the words aloud, but she knew what I was thinking.
As she tried to make good on her escape, I scanned the item again, and...once again, it showed up on the payment screen, but not on the checkout screen. Boy, good thing I got help, otherwise I might be here all day. This time, I was less subtle in my request for help. I believe they heard me over in the next county.
Passkey in hand, the same woman came back...again, and repeated the totally useless steps she had already executed and...surprise! They didn't work...again.
Hey, maybe we should repeat the pointing exercises all over again too. They didn't work the first time, but, who knows, maybe twice is the charm.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the self-checkout line now rivaled the line for Space Mountain at Disneyland, and, added bonus, it was all men who were thinking, "Dumb woman. She should have stayed in aisle two where she belongs and leave the technical stuff to the guys."
As they sighed and shifted from one foot to another, I did my best to place the blame where it belonged...on the demon machine.
"What's that?" I bellowed. "It's broken...again?"
Something about the way they rolled their eyes told me they weren't buying it.
"Swipe your card," the woman advised me, clearly at a loss for what to do next.
I knew in my heart of hearts that it wouldn't work, but I humored her anyway and swiped my card.
No reaction from the monster machine, so she swiped her card...again. This time, I actually think I heard satanic laughter coming from the machine.
"It's frozen," she deduced when nothing changed...again.
No. Really? I never would have guessed by the way the screens haven't changed in the last...hmmm...let's see...hour! Now for the million dollar question. Can you unfreeze it or not? She surrendered without even trying to swipe her card again and advised me to try another line.
Another quick glance at the line of men waiting for the self-checkout machines told me to not even suggest just moving to another machine. I think I saw a few of them fashioning nooses and fingering axe blades as though warning me what would happen if I even looked like I was contemplating such a move.
Shooting the devilish machine one last malevolent look, I headed for another line. I was so over the whole self-checkout thing...again.
As if someone knew I was skating on the edge, they suddenly opened another lane and I quickly got into it since it was the shortest one and only wrapped around the building six or seven times.
When I finally got there though, I had to hold my breath that things would go smoothly since I would have to deal with the same woman that hadn't been able to help me with the self-checkout ...again!
The latest machine to join forces with all the other evil machines in my life is the self-checkout counter at Home Depot.
The other day, I ran in to pick up three items. Three lousy little items. Naturally, they only had two check-out lanes open, both of which had lines that extended into the next state. Par for the course.
Why they even put in more than two or three lanes, I'll never know, because that's all that are ever open. Do they really think that taunting people who are holding hammers, saws and other assorted lethal tools with closed lanes is the smart thing to do?
Miraculously, the self-checkout lane seemed to be moving at a turtle's pace instead of a snail's, so I got in that line. Faster than you can recite volumes one to six of the Encyclopedia Britannica, I was at one of the machines swiping my first item. Beep. Into the bag it went. Second item. Beep. Also, into the bag. Third item. Beep. Onto the counter it went since the box was too big to bag.
And there is where the big 'ole fly landed smack in the ointment. The payment machine registered the item, but the large screen did not and the voice kept telling me to place the item back on the scanner.
Great. Dueling machines. Now they were no longer content to come after me one at a time. They were tag-teaming me.
I looked around for help from a store employee that did not have a computer chip running them. Several minutes of frantically waving my arms as though I were guiding a 747 in for a landing on aisle four finally attracted the attention of an employee who came over to see what the fuss was about.
"You didn't scan the last item," she explained patiently.
I pointed to the machine which indicated I had. She pointed to the checkout screen which said I hadn't.
Again, I pointed to the machine which said I had. Hey lady, just so you know, I can do this for quite a while before my arm gets tired. But something about the way I was baring my teeth at her must have made her rethink the whole competition thing, and she took out a passkey, scanned it, pushed some buttons, and indicated I should try...again.
There. That was all I wanted. Now was that so hard? I may not have said the words aloud, but she knew what I was thinking.
As she tried to make good on her escape, I scanned the item again, and...once again, it showed up on the payment screen, but not on the checkout screen. Boy, good thing I got help, otherwise I might be here all day. This time, I was less subtle in my request for help. I believe they heard me over in the next county.
Passkey in hand, the same woman came back...again, and repeated the totally useless steps she had already executed and...surprise! They didn't work...again.
Hey, maybe we should repeat the pointing exercises all over again too. They didn't work the first time, but, who knows, maybe twice is the charm.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the self-checkout line now rivaled the line for Space Mountain at Disneyland, and, added bonus, it was all men who were thinking, "Dumb woman. She should have stayed in aisle two where she belongs and leave the technical stuff to the guys."
As they sighed and shifted from one foot to another, I did my best to place the blame where it belonged...on the demon machine.
"What's that?" I bellowed. "It's broken...again?"
Something about the way they rolled their eyes told me they weren't buying it.
"Swipe your card," the woman advised me, clearly at a loss for what to do next.
I knew in my heart of hearts that it wouldn't work, but I humored her anyway and swiped my card.
No reaction from the monster machine, so she swiped her card...again. This time, I actually think I heard satanic laughter coming from the machine.
"It's frozen," she deduced when nothing changed...again.
No. Really? I never would have guessed by the way the screens haven't changed in the last...hmmm...let's see...hour! Now for the million dollar question. Can you unfreeze it or not? She surrendered without even trying to swipe her card again and advised me to try another line.
Another quick glance at the line of men waiting for the self-checkout machines told me to not even suggest just moving to another machine. I think I saw a few of them fashioning nooses and fingering axe blades as though warning me what would happen if I even looked like I was contemplating such a move.
Shooting the devilish machine one last malevolent look, I headed for another line. I was so over the whole self-checkout thing...again.
As if someone knew I was skating on the edge, they suddenly opened another lane and I quickly got into it since it was the shortest one and only wrapped around the building six or seven times.
When I finally got there though, I had to hold my breath that things would go smoothly since I would have to deal with the same woman that hadn't been able to help me with the self-checkout ...again!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Three Times is the Charm
My ipod nano died last week, so I decided to upgrade to the itouch and have some fun. Apple seemed to think I needed exercise instead.
Monday, I went to the store, which was, as usual, jammed. First, I talked to somebody in an orange shirt, but they told me I needed to register with somebody in a blue shirt, who told me he would have somebody in an orange shirt help me.
Okay, since I was already talking to an orange guy, why did I need the blue guy again? Gee, I remember the good old days when you could walk into a store and get help from anyone regardless of the color shirt they were wearing.
But, I followed protocol and was assigned an orange guy, only not the original orange guy who had led me to the blue guy. Oh no, another orange guy who had to come from across the store. (Was it something I said?)
I explained to new orange guy that I wanted the itouch and a case. Did they have one with a clip?
He shook his head regretfully as he led me over to an entire wall filled with nothing but cases and told me no.
No? Seriously, you have, hmmm, let's see, one, two, three...six million different cases here and not one for the itouch with a clip? It never occurred to anyone that like every other ipod in here, someone, somewhere, someday, might want to attach their itouch to them?
"Well, you could put it in your pocket," he offered helpfully.
Wow. My pocket. And how many engineers did it take to come up with that solution? I continued to scan the endless collection of cases, sure that this guy just had to be wrong, as I threw a withering glance in his direction.
"What about this one?" I asked, tapping a leather case.
"No, that's only for the iphone."
"Okay, how about this one?" I pointed to another likely candidate.
"That's for the old itouch. You have the new one, but here's the one I use," he volunteered, handing me a silicone sleeve. "I love it."
Yeah, because you have pockets. Accepting defeat, I took his suggestion, purchased my itouch and left, shaking my head in disbelief.
The next morning, after charging my new toy, I successfully downloaded my music, but couldn't download my photos.
Time and time again, my new touch told me it was "syncing", but failed to do so. I tried resetting, I clicked on every possible option and button they offered. I even tried to download the new 2.2.1 program they told me I needed. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
I looked online for help. I watched tutorials. Still nothing. Nada. Zip. But I now knew more about the itouch than I ever wanted to, and frankly, I'm a little bit worried that I may have had to get rid of some vital information, like the names of the top ten finalists on American Idol to make room for all that new information.
Gritting my teeth over the pain I knew it would cause me, I turned to my final resort...the helpline.
Miracle of miracles though, the Apple helpline was...helpful. Within a few minutes, the woman was able to tell me that Mr. orange guy had sold me an ipod that not only had some problems, but that it didn't even have the latest programs installed. She made me an appointment for that afternoon and suggested I return it for a new one. Done.
So once again, I trudged back to the mall and fought my way through the crowd to the help desk, where a blue girl told me I needed to check in with an orange girl with a laptop in order to be sent back to the help desk where somebody blue would help me. Arrrrrgh! And what color shirt should I see for the newvous breakdown I am about to have?
Within a relatively short period of time though, I had my new "updated" ipod and was about to be happily on my way when blue girl told me that my case was not designed for that model touch and I would be unable to use earphones with it. Arrrgh and Grrrr!!!!
Did I still have the box? Yes? Good, then just bring it back and exchange it. I began scoping out the store looking for the orange guy from the day before, but luck was on his side and he wasn't there. I had thought of a new place for his ipod besides in his pocket and wanted to share it with him.
And so, back I went on the third day to exchange my case. This time, I bypassed the orange, the blue and the help desk and went straight to the case wall on my own. After searching for a while(let's just say I was thinking of changing my name to Rip Van Winkle when I was done), I finally saw what I was looking for...the Holy Grail...an itouch case for my generation itouch with.....wonder of wonders, a clip!
Hah! Take that, orange people.
I seized the next person I came across and, refusing to buy into their colored shirt fixation, shoved my receipt under their nose. I told them I was exchanging one case for another and gave them the evil eye when it looked like they might try and palm me off on another "color". Fortunately for them, they backed down and quickly made the exchange.
As I left with my new itouch snuggled into it's new clip case, I paused to wipe a tear from my eye, sad that I would have no reason to visit for a fourth day in a row.
Monday, I went to the store, which was, as usual, jammed. First, I talked to somebody in an orange shirt, but they told me I needed to register with somebody in a blue shirt, who told me he would have somebody in an orange shirt help me.
Okay, since I was already talking to an orange guy, why did I need the blue guy again? Gee, I remember the good old days when you could walk into a store and get help from anyone regardless of the color shirt they were wearing.
But, I followed protocol and was assigned an orange guy, only not the original orange guy who had led me to the blue guy. Oh no, another orange guy who had to come from across the store. (Was it something I said?)
I explained to new orange guy that I wanted the itouch and a case. Did they have one with a clip?
He shook his head regretfully as he led me over to an entire wall filled with nothing but cases and told me no.
No? Seriously, you have, hmmm, let's see, one, two, three...six million different cases here and not one for the itouch with a clip? It never occurred to anyone that like every other ipod in here, someone, somewhere, someday, might want to attach their itouch to them?
"Well, you could put it in your pocket," he offered helpfully.
Wow. My pocket. And how many engineers did it take to come up with that solution? I continued to scan the endless collection of cases, sure that this guy just had to be wrong, as I threw a withering glance in his direction.
"What about this one?" I asked, tapping a leather case.
"No, that's only for the iphone."
"Okay, how about this one?" I pointed to another likely candidate.
"That's for the old itouch. You have the new one, but here's the one I use," he volunteered, handing me a silicone sleeve. "I love it."
Yeah, because you have pockets. Accepting defeat, I took his suggestion, purchased my itouch and left, shaking my head in disbelief.
The next morning, after charging my new toy, I successfully downloaded my music, but couldn't download my photos.
Time and time again, my new touch told me it was "syncing", but failed to do so. I tried resetting, I clicked on every possible option and button they offered. I even tried to download the new 2.2.1 program they told me I needed. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
I looked online for help. I watched tutorials. Still nothing. Nada. Zip. But I now knew more about the itouch than I ever wanted to, and frankly, I'm a little bit worried that I may have had to get rid of some vital information, like the names of the top ten finalists on American Idol to make room for all that new information.
Gritting my teeth over the pain I knew it would cause me, I turned to my final resort...the helpline.
Miracle of miracles though, the Apple helpline was...helpful. Within a few minutes, the woman was able to tell me that Mr. orange guy had sold me an ipod that not only had some problems, but that it didn't even have the latest programs installed. She made me an appointment for that afternoon and suggested I return it for a new one. Done.
So once again, I trudged back to the mall and fought my way through the crowd to the help desk, where a blue girl told me I needed to check in with an orange girl with a laptop in order to be sent back to the help desk where somebody blue would help me. Arrrrrgh! And what color shirt should I see for the newvous breakdown I am about to have?
Within a relatively short period of time though, I had my new "updated" ipod and was about to be happily on my way when blue girl told me that my case was not designed for that model touch and I would be unable to use earphones with it. Arrrgh and Grrrr!!!!
Did I still have the box? Yes? Good, then just bring it back and exchange it. I began scoping out the store looking for the orange guy from the day before, but luck was on his side and he wasn't there. I had thought of a new place for his ipod besides in his pocket and wanted to share it with him.
And so, back I went on the third day to exchange my case. This time, I bypassed the orange, the blue and the help desk and went straight to the case wall on my own. After searching for a while(let's just say I was thinking of changing my name to Rip Van Winkle when I was done), I finally saw what I was looking for...the Holy Grail...an itouch case for my generation itouch with.....wonder of wonders, a clip!
Hah! Take that, orange people.
I seized the next person I came across and, refusing to buy into their colored shirt fixation, shoved my receipt under their nose. I told them I was exchanging one case for another and gave them the evil eye when it looked like they might try and palm me off on another "color". Fortunately for them, they backed down and quickly made the exchange.
As I left with my new itouch snuggled into it's new clip case, I paused to wipe a tear from my eye, sad that I would have no reason to visit for a fourth day in a row.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Different Strokes for Different Folks
I was talking to my sister the other day while she was in Florida visiting my parents. Since the weather was not conducive to sitting at the pool or going to the beach, they had instead gone to the mall. God help them all.
For my mother and I, shopping is necessary for survival. Like the hunter/gatherers of old, we can spend hours ferreting out a good sale, pouncing on the perfect shirt to go with a certain skirt or pair of pants. The poor thing doesn't stand a chance.
We dig through massive racks of end of season clothing for that one bargain that will be the envy of shoppers everywhere, then head off to the dressing rooms clutching our prizes all marked: fifty percent off the lowest ticket price!
The smell of new shoe leather makes us dizzy with delight and an expensive bowl hiding on a clearance table sends us into spasms of joy. It is all we can do to contain ourselves when we spot a dollar store or outlet mall.
My sister shares some of these traits...as long as she is shopping for jeans, T-shirts or outdoor type clothing. Take her into Ann Taylor or Sephora and her eyes glaze over faster than you can say "free makeover". Within seconds, she is searching for the nearest exit and/or easy chair and googling "Foot Locker" on her iphone. Our best shopping trip together was when she came with me to a great little boutique and they offered her a glass of wine to kill the pain of watching me try on dresses.
Conversely, when she gets into an L.L. Bean or Hudson Trail Outfitters, you need a crowbar to get her out. Her goal there is to try on one of everything and fill as many shopping bags as she can carry and then order the rest online. Searching for the ultimate sneaker or work shoe with her can suck hours out of your life and make you want to run screaming into the night.
My father, on the other hand, views any shopping expedition as more or less a seek-and-destroy military operation.
He interrogates you on what stores you expect to try and visit while at the mall so he can park the car in the optimal spot for a quick invasion and an even quicker getaway. Before leaving the car, there is the mandatory synchronization of watches so that you don't go over your extimated time and cut into lunch hour.Then, using the mall directory which he keeps in the car for planning purposes, he maps out the plan of attack highlighting the quickest route from store A to store B.
Once in the mall, he forges ahead, calling out directions such as, "Left at Williams-Sonoma and then a right at Starbucks!" like a general leading the invasion on Normandy. Although he has factored in some time for a few side trips to stores that were not previously run through the appropriate channels, the quickest way to drive him crazy is to tell him you just want to browse. It just throws the whole battle plan off.
Now this is not to say that he doesn't try to be gracious about things. He amiably agrees to wait outside any store you want to go into and he will even follow you right through the larger department stores. Sometimes you can even get him to browse through the men's section on his own or stop by a gadget store to check out the latest guy toys...for about three minutes. But the whole time you are shopping, you are aware that you are on the clock. And the longer you take, the less like General Paton he becomes and the more like the Rain Man.
"It's getting near lunchtime," he'll say. "It's almost noon." "If we don't eat lunch soon, we'll be running into dinnertime and then we won't be hungry for dinner." "Maybe we should just eat a small lunch." "We could eat at the food court, but a restaurant would be better." "Maybe we should leave the mall and go to that place down the road before it gets too crowded." "Did you get what you needed?" "We can come back, if you want, but right now, it's getting near lunchtime."
And so he marshals the troops and marches everyone back to the car.
Yeah. God help them all.
For my mother and I, shopping is necessary for survival. Like the hunter/gatherers of old, we can spend hours ferreting out a good sale, pouncing on the perfect shirt to go with a certain skirt or pair of pants. The poor thing doesn't stand a chance.
We dig through massive racks of end of season clothing for that one bargain that will be the envy of shoppers everywhere, then head off to the dressing rooms clutching our prizes all marked: fifty percent off the lowest ticket price!
The smell of new shoe leather makes us dizzy with delight and an expensive bowl hiding on a clearance table sends us into spasms of joy. It is all we can do to contain ourselves when we spot a dollar store or outlet mall.
My sister shares some of these traits...as long as she is shopping for jeans, T-shirts or outdoor type clothing. Take her into Ann Taylor or Sephora and her eyes glaze over faster than you can say "free makeover". Within seconds, she is searching for the nearest exit and/or easy chair and googling "Foot Locker" on her iphone. Our best shopping trip together was when she came with me to a great little boutique and they offered her a glass of wine to kill the pain of watching me try on dresses.
Conversely, when she gets into an L.L. Bean or Hudson Trail Outfitters, you need a crowbar to get her out. Her goal there is to try on one of everything and fill as many shopping bags as she can carry and then order the rest online. Searching for the ultimate sneaker or work shoe with her can suck hours out of your life and make you want to run screaming into the night.
My father, on the other hand, views any shopping expedition as more or less a seek-and-destroy military operation.
He interrogates you on what stores you expect to try and visit while at the mall so he can park the car in the optimal spot for a quick invasion and an even quicker getaway. Before leaving the car, there is the mandatory synchronization of watches so that you don't go over your extimated time and cut into lunch hour.Then, using the mall directory which he keeps in the car for planning purposes, he maps out the plan of attack highlighting the quickest route from store A to store B.
Once in the mall, he forges ahead, calling out directions such as, "Left at Williams-Sonoma and then a right at Starbucks!" like a general leading the invasion on Normandy. Although he has factored in some time for a few side trips to stores that were not previously run through the appropriate channels, the quickest way to drive him crazy is to tell him you just want to browse. It just throws the whole battle plan off.
Now this is not to say that he doesn't try to be gracious about things. He amiably agrees to wait outside any store you want to go into and he will even follow you right through the larger department stores. Sometimes you can even get him to browse through the men's section on his own or stop by a gadget store to check out the latest guy toys...for about three minutes. But the whole time you are shopping, you are aware that you are on the clock. And the longer you take, the less like General Paton he becomes and the more like the Rain Man.
"It's getting near lunchtime," he'll say. "It's almost noon." "If we don't eat lunch soon, we'll be running into dinnertime and then we won't be hungry for dinner." "Maybe we should just eat a small lunch." "We could eat at the food court, but a restaurant would be better." "Maybe we should leave the mall and go to that place down the road before it gets too crowded." "Did you get what you needed?" "We can come back, if you want, but right now, it's getting near lunchtime."
And so he marshals the troops and marches everyone back to the car.
Yeah. God help them all.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Fool Me Twice
In laboratories all over the world, rats are trained to do things like run through mazes based on a system of reward and punishment. Ring the bell, get the cheese. Do the wrong thing, get zapped. Their furry little brains soon tell them how to avoid getting zapped.
Tim and I, on the other hand, are apparently not as bright as those lab rats.
After the whole winter coat shopping debacle last fall, you would think we would have learned our lesson. But noooooo.
When Tom and Beth told us they were taking the kids back-to-school shoe shopping, what did we do? Did we say, "Sorry, we're busy"? Noooo. Did we plead illness or a sudden trip? Noooo. Did we at least tell them to start without us? Nooo.
Instead, we drove out to the mall on Labor Day weekend, along with every parent with school age children, teenagers with their friends, retired people with their grandchildren, and visiting tourists with their cameras. In short, pretty much the entire population of the DC Metro area. And they all needed school shoes. (Didn't these people know they were supposed to be home barbecuing?)
I had the feeling that as lab rats, we'd have been demoted to testing sleep medications for ending up in another painful shopping situation. Again.
And if fighting the crowds wasn't bad enough, we had to deal with three different shoe departments: men's and women's for the two older kids and children's for the two "littles".
Somehow, Tim contrived to head off to the relatively sane world of men's and women's with the two "bigs", and Beth and I (and later Tom, who I suspect tried to escape it altogether) got the fun-filled task of trying to find appropriate shoes that met with the "littles" approval. (As parents, Tom and Beth really had to do this, but I'm pretty sure that by not sneaking off to the restroom for an extended "visit",I had slipped even lower on the lab rat job scale and would probably be lucky if I was even considered smart enough to be a crash test dummy rat.)
Our niece, with me in tow, quickly headed for the ugliest, tackiest, Vegas-showgirl style shoes to be had. With their neon sparkles and multi-colored spangles, they looked like they had been designed by a drunken monkey with a bedazzler and a bad attitude.
Firmly placing the blame on the fashion challenged heathens at the school and their silly "appropriate school shoe" policy (that I totally made up), I commiserated with her even as I steered her away from a pair of satin polka-dot open-toed shoes with two-inch heels.
"If it was up to me," I sighed, shaking my head, "I'd let you have them, but the school wouldn't let you into class with shoes like that." Hehehe.
Wistfully petting all the shiny, cool shoes, she eventually settled for a pain of black Juicy Couture ballet flats(the Jimmy Choo of kid's world)....and pink and blue plaid flats...and brown loafers...and silver and pink sneakers, all courtesy of the very "helpful" saleslady who was clearly working on commission.
Seeing her eyes drift toward the $400 Prada boots (wow, something even more expensive than Juicy!), Beth and I fixed her with a glare that threatened death if she even leaned in their direction, and we moved on to finding shoes for our nephew.
Unlike his sister, the Imelda Marcos of first grade, he had more interest in climbing the shoe racks than actually trying on the shoes. There followed fifteen minutes of, "No, you may not swing from that bar, this is not a playground." and, "I said walk around to make sure the shoes fit, not race around like your pants are on fire and someone is chasing you with a can of gasoline" and, "Hanging upside down from the chair while singing Disney songs is not helping get the shoes on your feet."
Finally though, six hours later (okay, it was really only about an hour, but it felt like six), he had a pair of brown loafers and, not to be outdone by his sister, a pair of gold sneakers (do all children have such appalling taste?).
By this time, Tim and the "bigs" were back with their purchases, looking a lot better for the wear than we were (I'll bet he didn't once have to pull either one of them out from under the display tables.).
As we headed off with enough shoes to open our own shop, I wondered if this fulfilled our obligation for the year, or if winter coats were again in our future. Somehow I have the feeling we will be getting zapped again.
Tim and I, on the other hand, are apparently not as bright as those lab rats.
After the whole winter coat shopping debacle last fall, you would think we would have learned our lesson. But noooooo.
When Tom and Beth told us they were taking the kids back-to-school shoe shopping, what did we do? Did we say, "Sorry, we're busy"? Noooo. Did we plead illness or a sudden trip? Noooo. Did we at least tell them to start without us? Nooo.
Instead, we drove out to the mall on Labor Day weekend, along with every parent with school age children, teenagers with their friends, retired people with their grandchildren, and visiting tourists with their cameras. In short, pretty much the entire population of the DC Metro area. And they all needed school shoes. (Didn't these people know they were supposed to be home barbecuing?)
I had the feeling that as lab rats, we'd have been demoted to testing sleep medications for ending up in another painful shopping situation. Again.
And if fighting the crowds wasn't bad enough, we had to deal with three different shoe departments: men's and women's for the two older kids and children's for the two "littles".
Somehow, Tim contrived to head off to the relatively sane world of men's and women's with the two "bigs", and Beth and I (and later Tom, who I suspect tried to escape it altogether) got the fun-filled task of trying to find appropriate shoes that met with the "littles" approval. (As parents, Tom and Beth really had to do this, but I'm pretty sure that by not sneaking off to the restroom for an extended "visit",I had slipped even lower on the lab rat job scale and would probably be lucky if I was even considered smart enough to be a crash test dummy rat.)
Our niece, with me in tow, quickly headed for the ugliest, tackiest, Vegas-showgirl style shoes to be had. With their neon sparkles and multi-colored spangles, they looked like they had been designed by a drunken monkey with a bedazzler and a bad attitude.
Firmly placing the blame on the fashion challenged heathens at the school and their silly "appropriate school shoe" policy (that I totally made up), I commiserated with her even as I steered her away from a pair of satin polka-dot open-toed shoes with two-inch heels.
"If it was up to me," I sighed, shaking my head, "I'd let you have them, but the school wouldn't let you into class with shoes like that." Hehehe.
Wistfully petting all the shiny, cool shoes, she eventually settled for a pain of black Juicy Couture ballet flats(the Jimmy Choo of kid's world)....and pink and blue plaid flats...and brown loafers...and silver and pink sneakers, all courtesy of the very "helpful" saleslady who was clearly working on commission.
Seeing her eyes drift toward the $400 Prada boots (wow, something even more expensive than Juicy!), Beth and I fixed her with a glare that threatened death if she even leaned in their direction, and we moved on to finding shoes for our nephew.
Unlike his sister, the Imelda Marcos of first grade, he had more interest in climbing the shoe racks than actually trying on the shoes. There followed fifteen minutes of, "No, you may not swing from that bar, this is not a playground." and, "I said walk around to make sure the shoes fit, not race around like your pants are on fire and someone is chasing you with a can of gasoline" and, "Hanging upside down from the chair while singing Disney songs is not helping get the shoes on your feet."
Finally though, six hours later (okay, it was really only about an hour, but it felt like six), he had a pair of brown loafers and, not to be outdone by his sister, a pair of gold sneakers (do all children have such appalling taste?).
By this time, Tim and the "bigs" were back with their purchases, looking a lot better for the wear than we were (I'll bet he didn't once have to pull either one of them out from under the display tables.).
As we headed off with enough shoes to open our own shop, I wondered if this fulfilled our obligation for the year, or if winter coats were again in our future. Somehow I have the feeling we will be getting zapped again.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
A Fractured Fairy Tale
I shouldn't have done it. I knew it would end badly. But I let myself by seduced by the dream. I let myself be blinded by the fairy dust. I bought my washer and dryer at Home Depot.
The avalanche of paperwork alone should have rung a warning bell in my head. Any sane person would have recognized it as a portent of bad things to come, but not me. I was too busy looking at the twenty percent off signs and being dazzled by their talk of rebates and quick delivery. I allowed myself to forget the past and dared to believe the glass slipper would fit this time.
Pick a day, any day, the salesman enticed me. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Think of us as your fairy Godmother. We will wave our wand and make all your delivery dreams come true.
Giddily, I wallowed in the heady sensation of being all-powerful. I enjoyed the heady rush the freedom of choice gave me. My prince had come and he was wearing an orange vest. I picked Thursday.
On Wednesday afternoon, I got the call. My brand new washer and dryer would be delivered the next day. I was exstatic, I was euphoric, I was doomed to disappointment.
Thursday came, but there was no knock on the door, no ringing of the bell, no jangle of the phone heralding the much anticipated arrival of my new appliances. There was only the distant sound of a clock striking midnight.
Still not quite wanting to believe my coach had turned back into a pumpkin, I called Home Depot.
Oh, yes, they assured me, the order was done.
Done? You mean like my dream of you people actually getting something right for once?
They seemed surprised by hostility, and quickly shifted the blame to the manufacturer. Really, they stressed, we have nothing to do with the whole shipping and delivery process. The manufacturer sends it to a warehouse and a local delivery firm takes it from there. Honest. We just sell the stuff.
I could feel my coachman turning back into a big, fat rat with beady eyes and twitching whiskers.
So you sell stuff you don't have, promise delivery dates you can't control to unsuspecting customers and have no real way of tracking it beyond the date of purchase. Does that about sum it up? How about cancelling an order and giving a full refund? Is that something you can do?
I was quickly transferred to the shipping company where the dream continued to fade.
It wasn't their fault, they protested. They had nothing to do with the sale or delivery. They were just the manufacturer. They had tons of washers and dryers, all ready to go. They didn't need to track orders because that was not their job. It must have been the delivery service.
The four white horses once again became squeeky, little mice.
The shipping company proved to be no better at accepting responsibility than the other two. It couldn't be them, they said. They would never promise delivery and then not deliver.
When I pointed out that my caller ID proved otherwise, they fell back on the tried and true escuse that all rodents use: our computer is down, so I can't access your information.
Yeah, right. And the ugly stepsisters are posing for the cover of Sports Illustrated.
After much haggling and promising and threatening, I was assured my appliances would be delivered this Friday, but I'm not holding my breath.
Instead, I'm hunting for a certain queen who can whip up a few poisoned apples.
The avalanche of paperwork alone should have rung a warning bell in my head. Any sane person would have recognized it as a portent of bad things to come, but not me. I was too busy looking at the twenty percent off signs and being dazzled by their talk of rebates and quick delivery. I allowed myself to forget the past and dared to believe the glass slipper would fit this time.
Pick a day, any day, the salesman enticed me. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Think of us as your fairy Godmother. We will wave our wand and make all your delivery dreams come true.
Giddily, I wallowed in the heady sensation of being all-powerful. I enjoyed the heady rush the freedom of choice gave me. My prince had come and he was wearing an orange vest. I picked Thursday.
On Wednesday afternoon, I got the call. My brand new washer and dryer would be delivered the next day. I was exstatic, I was euphoric, I was doomed to disappointment.
Thursday came, but there was no knock on the door, no ringing of the bell, no jangle of the phone heralding the much anticipated arrival of my new appliances. There was only the distant sound of a clock striking midnight.
Still not quite wanting to believe my coach had turned back into a pumpkin, I called Home Depot.
Oh, yes, they assured me, the order was done.
Done? You mean like my dream of you people actually getting something right for once?
They seemed surprised by hostility, and quickly shifted the blame to the manufacturer. Really, they stressed, we have nothing to do with the whole shipping and delivery process. The manufacturer sends it to a warehouse and a local delivery firm takes it from there. Honest. We just sell the stuff.
I could feel my coachman turning back into a big, fat rat with beady eyes and twitching whiskers.
So you sell stuff you don't have, promise delivery dates you can't control to unsuspecting customers and have no real way of tracking it beyond the date of purchase. Does that about sum it up? How about cancelling an order and giving a full refund? Is that something you can do?
I was quickly transferred to the shipping company where the dream continued to fade.
It wasn't their fault, they protested. They had nothing to do with the sale or delivery. They were just the manufacturer. They had tons of washers and dryers, all ready to go. They didn't need to track orders because that was not their job. It must have been the delivery service.
The four white horses once again became squeeky, little mice.
The shipping company proved to be no better at accepting responsibility than the other two. It couldn't be them, they said. They would never promise delivery and then not deliver.
When I pointed out that my caller ID proved otherwise, they fell back on the tried and true escuse that all rodents use: our computer is down, so I can't access your information.
Yeah, right. And the ugly stepsisters are posing for the cover of Sports Illustrated.
After much haggling and promising and threatening, I was assured my appliances would be delivered this Friday, but I'm not holding my breath.
Instead, I'm hunting for a certain queen who can whip up a few poisoned apples.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Faster and Easier? Don't Make Me Laugh
If computers are supposed to make shopping for items faster and easier, why does it take longer and make (my) life harder?
First case in point, buying a refrigerator.
Knowing which one I wanted, I hopped online, checked out a few places for the best price and ordered one. One. I got two. I sent one back. No problem, I was told, it was a simple computer mistake on their part and would not show up on my bill. It showed up on my bill.
I got online and tried to fix it, only to find that you can't fix it online. I called the place and spoke to a live person who had to hop on the computer and fix it, but first they had to find out where the problem was. This necessitated a copious amount of tapping and clicking and opening files and entering and reentering much information(wow, something worse than listening to twenty minutes of muzak), but finally, just when I was wishing I had decided to go with a cooler and coldpak, they thought they had solved the problem --a computer glitch(no, really? I was shocked!).
Of course, the computer wouldn't let them fix it at the moment, but I was assured that they would contact the credit card company and I would see a credit on my next bill. Oh yes, have your computer call my computer. That should solve everything.
Next up, buying a washer and dryer. Fool me once...
This time I decided to actually go into the store and purchase them in person. That would definitely be faster and easier. Besides, I had looked at them online to compare features and prices, but that was not a satisfactory substitute for actually slamming the doors and pushing all the shiny new buttons. And I really wanted to know what the actual difference was between 3.7 cubic feet and 4.0 cubic feet of space inside a round drum (as far as I can tell, it is about $200).
Did I say faster and easier? Not if there is a computer involved. First, the salesman had to log on, which seemed to require more passwords and codes than the entry gates to Fort Knox. Then, he had to check the availability of the items (more codes and passwords), the delivery location to see what the delivery fee would be (a complicated process which required a book as well as the computer), the available dates for delivery ( we consulted his calender, my calender, called the contractor and performed six hundred forty-two more key strokes), and, as if that wasn't enough, the dates of the autumnal equinox, the next full moon and the delivery driver's birthday to see if Jupiter was in line with Mars in the house of his rising sun.
Once all of this was entered, we could then get down to the actual information gathering: name, billing address, phone numbers (day, night, cell, work, childhood home, first apartment), e-mail addresses(mine, Tim's, my parents', brother and sister's, in laws), delivery address, name of person accepting delivery and his favorite color, accessibility to condo unit (apparently, they will deliver to the third floor without an elevator, but the fourth is pushing it just one step too far--what is that word you are mouthing?? Hernia???), credit card number, expiration date, security code, name of grade school I attended, first pet, best friend and shoe size.
Oh, but we weren't done yet. All of this information had to be previewed, tabulated, approved, printed out, reviewed and signed off on. This required much further diligent tapping of keys, jiggling of the mouse, an avalanche of computer printouts, and much stapling, folding and sealing. Pricewaterhouse doesn't go to this much trouble to tabulate the Oscar results!
Finally, after receiving a twenty-minute lecture on how to fill out the rebate forms (the instructions only took about two minutes, but they were repeated ten times to make sure I understood--hmmm, I wonder if it was the dazed look in my eyes or the slack jaw that gave me away?), I was on my way...to buy some furniture.
I didn't think it was possible, but this was an even more painful experience than the previous two. Some of the furniture was in stock at the actual store, some was in stock, but not on the premises, and some was catalogue and internet only, but they could do it on the store computer for me. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, it couldn't all be placed as one order. (Yeah, multiple computer glitches!!!)
To give the salesman credit, he tried his best to compensate for the inconvenience by working two computers at once. It was mesmerizing to watch, with a click click here and a tap tap there. Here a click, there a tap, everywhere a clicktap.
And there was even audience participation. It was credit card in, then credit card out(of the wallet), the discount card in, then the discount card out, the card with the address for delivery in, then the card with the address for delivery out. We turned ourselves around, repeated the whole process three more times, and that's what it was all about.
At last it was done though, and I was on my way. If I had known it would be that involved and taken that long, I would have packed a lunch and left a forwarding address.
Ah, but the saga doesn't end here. I returned home to get the confirmation e-mails from the store, only to find there were not two bedside tables listed, but one. One.
Maybe I could trade in the extra refrigerator for the other one.
First case in point, buying a refrigerator.
Knowing which one I wanted, I hopped online, checked out a few places for the best price and ordered one. One. I got two. I sent one back. No problem, I was told, it was a simple computer mistake on their part and would not show up on my bill. It showed up on my bill.
I got online and tried to fix it, only to find that you can't fix it online. I called the place and spoke to a live person who had to hop on the computer and fix it, but first they had to find out where the problem was. This necessitated a copious amount of tapping and clicking and opening files and entering and reentering much information(wow, something worse than listening to twenty minutes of muzak), but finally, just when I was wishing I had decided to go with a cooler and coldpak, they thought they had solved the problem --a computer glitch(no, really? I was shocked!).
Of course, the computer wouldn't let them fix it at the moment, but I was assured that they would contact the credit card company and I would see a credit on my next bill. Oh yes, have your computer call my computer. That should solve everything.
Next up, buying a washer and dryer. Fool me once...
This time I decided to actually go into the store and purchase them in person. That would definitely be faster and easier. Besides, I had looked at them online to compare features and prices, but that was not a satisfactory substitute for actually slamming the doors and pushing all the shiny new buttons. And I really wanted to know what the actual difference was between 3.7 cubic feet and 4.0 cubic feet of space inside a round drum (as far as I can tell, it is about $200).
Did I say faster and easier? Not if there is a computer involved. First, the salesman had to log on, which seemed to require more passwords and codes than the entry gates to Fort Knox. Then, he had to check the availability of the items (more codes and passwords), the delivery location to see what the delivery fee would be (a complicated process which required a book as well as the computer), the available dates for delivery ( we consulted his calender, my calender, called the contractor and performed six hundred forty-two more key strokes), and, as if that wasn't enough, the dates of the autumnal equinox, the next full moon and the delivery driver's birthday to see if Jupiter was in line with Mars in the house of his rising sun.
Once all of this was entered, we could then get down to the actual information gathering: name, billing address, phone numbers (day, night, cell, work, childhood home, first apartment), e-mail addresses(mine, Tim's, my parents', brother and sister's, in laws), delivery address, name of person accepting delivery and his favorite color, accessibility to condo unit (apparently, they will deliver to the third floor without an elevator, but the fourth is pushing it just one step too far--what is that word you are mouthing?? Hernia???), credit card number, expiration date, security code, name of grade school I attended, first pet, best friend and shoe size.
Oh, but we weren't done yet. All of this information had to be previewed, tabulated, approved, printed out, reviewed and signed off on. This required much further diligent tapping of keys, jiggling of the mouse, an avalanche of computer printouts, and much stapling, folding and sealing. Pricewaterhouse doesn't go to this much trouble to tabulate the Oscar results!
Finally, after receiving a twenty-minute lecture on how to fill out the rebate forms (the instructions only took about two minutes, but they were repeated ten times to make sure I understood--hmmm, I wonder if it was the dazed look in my eyes or the slack jaw that gave me away?), I was on my way...to buy some furniture.
I didn't think it was possible, but this was an even more painful experience than the previous two. Some of the furniture was in stock at the actual store, some was in stock, but not on the premises, and some was catalogue and internet only, but they could do it on the store computer for me. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, it couldn't all be placed as one order. (Yeah, multiple computer glitches!!!)
To give the salesman credit, he tried his best to compensate for the inconvenience by working two computers at once. It was mesmerizing to watch, with a click click here and a tap tap there. Here a click, there a tap, everywhere a clicktap.
And there was even audience participation. It was credit card in, then credit card out(of the wallet), the discount card in, then the discount card out, the card with the address for delivery in, then the card with the address for delivery out. We turned ourselves around, repeated the whole process three more times, and that's what it was all about.
At last it was done though, and I was on my way. If I had known it would be that involved and taken that long, I would have packed a lunch and left a forwarding address.
Ah, but the saga doesn't end here. I returned home to get the confirmation e-mails from the store, only to find there were not two bedside tables listed, but one. One.
Maybe I could trade in the extra refrigerator for the other one.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Size Does Matter
Perception is a funny thing.
Years ago, I worked at Sears in the women's department. Christmas there brought with it a parade of confused, desperate men who needed gifts for their wives/girlfriends/mothers.
"What size is she?" I would ask.
"Um. I don't know. About your size," they would invariably mutter, looking like they would rather be getting a root canal without Novocain than purchasing a twin set.
The day after Christmas there would then be a line out the door of women "my size" ranging from 4'11" and eighty pounds to 5' 8" and two hundred fifty pounds exchanging those twin sets.
I comforted myself with the fact that they were guys in love...or at least in panic mode.
It is worse when it is another woman. Like last week. And not once, but twice.
The first time, I had found a cute little summer shirt (on sale--yeah me!) and was wandering around looking for a top to match.
Another customer approached me and asked where I had found the skirt. After directing her to the correct rack, I found a shirt and headed for the fitting rooms. Turns out, she ended up behind me in line.
"What size is your skirt?" she asked, guessing a number a full four sizes larger.
As I turned around in shock (how big did my jeans make my butt look?) she saw the ticket displaying the size.
"Oh. I thought we were the same size," she explained, giving me a look that clearly said I was insane if I thought I could squeeze myself into that skirt.
Slipping into the skirt a few minutes later (which fit perfectly, thank you very much), I was tempted to go knock on her door and model it for her, but my ego couldn't handle her enquiring about the shirt.
The honor of insulting my chest size went, instead, to the sales clerk a few stores down.
"That's a great dress," she gushed, as I browsed through the racks. "And it's thirty percent off!"
"It looks a little small," I eyed the garment dubiously. "Do you have a larger size?"
"Well, no," she admitted reluctantly, then hastened to add, "but this should fit you. The designer made this with someone like you in mind."
I shouldn't have done it. I knew it was a mistake, and I would regret it, but I couldn't help myself.
"Someone like me?" I asked, bracing myself for the answer.
"Well, yes. You're small on top," she explained, making not so flattering gestures with her hands. "You know, like the European models."
No, actually, I was not aware that European models were flat-chested girls with large bottoms. Perhaps if the designer runs short of models, he can just use giant pears to display his clothing line. Maybe he should start marketing his line using the Queen song, "Fat-bottomed Girls". That ought to bring the customers pouring in.
But, she wasn't quite done.
"I can't wear these clothes myself, because I'm a triple D, but you are built like her," she indicated the other saleswoman, who looked as confused as I did.
Ah, yes, perception is everything.
Years ago, I worked at Sears in the women's department. Christmas there brought with it a parade of confused, desperate men who needed gifts for their wives/girlfriends/mothers.
"What size is she?" I would ask.
"Um. I don't know. About your size," they would invariably mutter, looking like they would rather be getting a root canal without Novocain than purchasing a twin set.
The day after Christmas there would then be a line out the door of women "my size" ranging from 4'11" and eighty pounds to 5' 8" and two hundred fifty pounds exchanging those twin sets.
I comforted myself with the fact that they were guys in love...or at least in panic mode.
It is worse when it is another woman. Like last week. And not once, but twice.
The first time, I had found a cute little summer shirt (on sale--yeah me!) and was wandering around looking for a top to match.
Another customer approached me and asked where I had found the skirt. After directing her to the correct rack, I found a shirt and headed for the fitting rooms. Turns out, she ended up behind me in line.
"What size is your skirt?" she asked, guessing a number a full four sizes larger.
As I turned around in shock (how big did my jeans make my butt look?) she saw the ticket displaying the size.
"Oh. I thought we were the same size," she explained, giving me a look that clearly said I was insane if I thought I could squeeze myself into that skirt.
Slipping into the skirt a few minutes later (which fit perfectly, thank you very much), I was tempted to go knock on her door and model it for her, but my ego couldn't handle her enquiring about the shirt.
The honor of insulting my chest size went, instead, to the sales clerk a few stores down.
"That's a great dress," she gushed, as I browsed through the racks. "And it's thirty percent off!"
"It looks a little small," I eyed the garment dubiously. "Do you have a larger size?"
"Well, no," she admitted reluctantly, then hastened to add, "but this should fit you. The designer made this with someone like you in mind."
I shouldn't have done it. I knew it was a mistake, and I would regret it, but I couldn't help myself.
"Someone like me?" I asked, bracing myself for the answer.
"Well, yes. You're small on top," she explained, making not so flattering gestures with her hands. "You know, like the European models."
No, actually, I was not aware that European models were flat-chested girls with large bottoms. Perhaps if the designer runs short of models, he can just use giant pears to display his clothing line. Maybe he should start marketing his line using the Queen song, "Fat-bottomed Girls". That ought to bring the customers pouring in.
But, she wasn't quite done.
"I can't wear these clothes myself, because I'm a triple D, but you are built like her," she indicated the other saleswoman, who looked as confused as I did.
Ah, yes, perception is everything.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Black Tie Optional
Guys just don't get it. For them, the words, "black tie" means one thing: go rent a tux. For us, it means: Red alert! Danger Will Robinson!
So when we received an invitation a few weeks ago for a formal affair this week, Tim shrugged and grumbled about having to clip on the tie (poor thing, how will he survive?) while I went into complete panic mode.
The dress, the shoes, the accessories, the dress.
And so it began. Tim, who can spend endless hours deciding bewteen a blue tie with red and yellow stripes or a blue tie with yellow and red stripes suddenly can't tell the difference between basic black and pink leopard print with sequins.
"What do you think of this?" I ask, holding up sample number one.
"Um...okay," he offers, glancing longingly at the nearest exit.
"Or, how about this one?" I press, holding up sample number two.
"Yeah. Whatever." He inches toward the door, but I'm not letting him off the hook that easily. I believe he promised for better or for worse???
"What about this?" I hold up yet another dress.
"Uh, no, it doesn't make you look fat." Nice try, but you're supposed to wait until I have it on to say that! Since he has decided to be about as useful as a parka in July, I decide to let him escape to Sharper Image, and look elsewhere for guidance...my blackberry.
After e-mailing and/or calling everyone else I know who is attending, I am in no better shape. Apparently. they also have "nothing to wear" and no ideas. Great. So basically, if the invitation said, "clothing optional," we'd all be set.
What to choose? The more I looked, the more confused and discouraged I became. Shop after shop, it seemed as though the "formal wear" was falling into four basic categories: Victoria Secrets model (six inches of fabric streched to cover considerably more real estate), Vegas showgirl (six inches of fabric covered with sequins, and/or beads, and/or cubic zirconia), Princess (before model: ragged hems and necklines that looked like Cinderella's mice had been gnawing on them, or the after model: big pouffy taffeta --enough said), and last, but not least...Grandma (lots of loosefitting knit "separates" that cover you from chin to toe).
I quickly learned not to turn to the salespeople for help since they apparently all work on commission. Skirt doesn't fit? Roll it over at the waist. I don't think so. Jacket too roomy? Buy a padded bra (or perhaps I should just stuff two grapefruits in there and be done with it.). One size too big, the next too small? Choose the smaller one. You can hold your breath for five or six hours right? (At least I think that's what she was saying, butI think I may have passed out for a minute or two there.). The front looks great. See? No,no, don't turn around. Take my word for it. The back looks fabulous!
Right.
In the end, I found there was really only one choice after all...the basic black dress, (literally, there was only one ) , and when I put it on tomorrow night, Tim had better tell me that it doesn't make me look fat!
So when we received an invitation a few weeks ago for a formal affair this week, Tim shrugged and grumbled about having to clip on the tie (poor thing, how will he survive?) while I went into complete panic mode.
The dress, the shoes, the accessories, the dress.
And so it began. Tim, who can spend endless hours deciding bewteen a blue tie with red and yellow stripes or a blue tie with yellow and red stripes suddenly can't tell the difference between basic black and pink leopard print with sequins.
"What do you think of this?" I ask, holding up sample number one.
"Um...okay," he offers, glancing longingly at the nearest exit.
"Or, how about this one?" I press, holding up sample number two.
"Yeah. Whatever." He inches toward the door, but I'm not letting him off the hook that easily. I believe he promised for better or for worse???
"What about this?" I hold up yet another dress.
"Uh, no, it doesn't make you look fat." Nice try, but you're supposed to wait until I have it on to say that! Since he has decided to be about as useful as a parka in July, I decide to let him escape to Sharper Image, and look elsewhere for guidance...my blackberry.
After e-mailing and/or calling everyone else I know who is attending, I am in no better shape. Apparently. they also have "nothing to wear" and no ideas. Great. So basically, if the invitation said, "clothing optional," we'd all be set.
What to choose? The more I looked, the more confused and discouraged I became. Shop after shop, it seemed as though the "formal wear" was falling into four basic categories: Victoria Secrets model (six inches of fabric streched to cover considerably more real estate), Vegas showgirl (six inches of fabric covered with sequins, and/or beads, and/or cubic zirconia), Princess (before model: ragged hems and necklines that looked like Cinderella's mice had been gnawing on them, or the after model: big pouffy taffeta --enough said), and last, but not least...Grandma (lots of loosefitting knit "separates" that cover you from chin to toe).
I quickly learned not to turn to the salespeople for help since they apparently all work on commission. Skirt doesn't fit? Roll it over at the waist. I don't think so. Jacket too roomy? Buy a padded bra (or perhaps I should just stuff two grapefruits in there and be done with it.). One size too big, the next too small? Choose the smaller one. You can hold your breath for five or six hours right? (At least I think that's what she was saying, butI think I may have passed out for a minute or two there.). The front looks great. See? No,no, don't turn around. Take my word for it. The back looks fabulous!
Right.
In the end, I found there was really only one choice after all...the basic black dress, (literally, there was only one ) , and when I put it on tomorrow night, Tim had better tell me that it doesn't make me look fat!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
For Everything...There is a Season?
Our niece's birthday is at the end of September, and this year, she wanted ice skates.
Since the Halloween decorations had been out in the stores from about the middle of August and at least one major department store began decking the halls in mid September, I figured ice skates would be no problem. I was wrong.
Footlocker, Sports Authority, Dick's Sporting Goods, Target, Ski Chalet; they all looked at me like I had lost my mind. Ice skates? In September? Uh uh. But if I wanted flip flops, I was in luck. Still tons of those available, and new shipments arriving daily!
I eventually ended up going online where, thankfully, there is no such animal as "seasonal merchandise".
So now it is November, and the last time I looked, that qualified as the beginning of the winter season. The mornings are getting colder, the days cooler. Perfect time for buying kid's winter coats, right? Wrong again!
The perfect time was apparently last month when it was eighty-five degrees.
After wandering around the first store on our list, unable to find winter gear (shouldn't it be relatively easy to spot it among the shorts and sleeveless tops?) we finally had to ask where they were hiding it.
Giving us one of those pitying "really, you waited this long to buy winter coats" looks, the salesperson directed us to the clearance racks. Thinking this was an aberration, we trundled down the mall corridor to the next store...and once again ended up at the clearance racks.
After visiting about three dozen more children's departments/stores, we were waving the white flag and considering making the suggestion to Tim's brother that they move to Florida. I'm pretty sure Howard Carter didn't have this much trouble discovering King Tut's tomb (although at this point, we were feeling pretty much cursed--either that or we were cursing a lot--is that the same thing?)
All we wanted were a couple of jackets the kids could wear to school. Was that asking so much? It's not like we had our hearts set on matching coats made of carefully blended virgin Tibetan wool from a yak named Edna and double-cocooned silk from a Chinese worm named Dwayne!
Finally, after visiting about three dozen children's departments/stores, we found it...the Holy Grail. One pink coat in our niece's size, and a whopping two in our nephew's (thankfully, neither one of them was pink). Snatching them up, we ran to the register and purchased them before any other poor unfortunate soul who had been lulled into a false sense of complacency by the summer-like temperatures found them.
It was a long, tiring, frustrating day, but I have learned a few valuable lessons from it. One: buy in season (which basically means shopping for winter coats in September/October, bathing suits in January, and back-to-school clothing in July), and two: be out of town next year when it is time to shop for coats!
Since the Halloween decorations had been out in the stores from about the middle of August and at least one major department store began decking the halls in mid September, I figured ice skates would be no problem. I was wrong.
Footlocker, Sports Authority, Dick's Sporting Goods, Target, Ski Chalet; they all looked at me like I had lost my mind. Ice skates? In September? Uh uh. But if I wanted flip flops, I was in luck. Still tons of those available, and new shipments arriving daily!
I eventually ended up going online where, thankfully, there is no such animal as "seasonal merchandise".
So now it is November, and the last time I looked, that qualified as the beginning of the winter season. The mornings are getting colder, the days cooler. Perfect time for buying kid's winter coats, right? Wrong again!
The perfect time was apparently last month when it was eighty-five degrees.
After wandering around the first store on our list, unable to find winter gear (shouldn't it be relatively easy to spot it among the shorts and sleeveless tops?) we finally had to ask where they were hiding it.
Giving us one of those pitying "really, you waited this long to buy winter coats" looks, the salesperson directed us to the clearance racks. Thinking this was an aberration, we trundled down the mall corridor to the next store...and once again ended up at the clearance racks.
After visiting about three dozen more children's departments/stores, we were waving the white flag and considering making the suggestion to Tim's brother that they move to Florida. I'm pretty sure Howard Carter didn't have this much trouble discovering King Tut's tomb (although at this point, we were feeling pretty much cursed--either that or we were cursing a lot--is that the same thing?)
All we wanted were a couple of jackets the kids could wear to school. Was that asking so much? It's not like we had our hearts set on matching coats made of carefully blended virgin Tibetan wool from a yak named Edna and double-cocooned silk from a Chinese worm named Dwayne!
Finally, after visiting about three dozen children's departments/stores, we found it...the Holy Grail. One pink coat in our niece's size, and a whopping two in our nephew's (thankfully, neither one of them was pink). Snatching them up, we ran to the register and purchased them before any other poor unfortunate soul who had been lulled into a false sense of complacency by the summer-like temperatures found them.
It was a long, tiring, frustrating day, but I have learned a few valuable lessons from it. One: buy in season (which basically means shopping for winter coats in September/October, bathing suits in January, and back-to-school clothing in July), and two: be out of town next year when it is time to shop for coats!
Friday, October 5, 2007
Shop Till You Drop
I love to shop. Anywhere, anytime, for anything. But not in China.
Here, the rules of engagement are simple: You enter a store and stroll through the aisles where some lovely muzak is playing. Maybe someone offers to help you, or even bring you a soda. You choose an item (or thirty), select the correct size (S,M,L or XL --depending on how the diet is going), and pay what the tag tells you (unless it is on sale, and really, why buy something if it's not?) It's all very simple, very civilized.
Not in China.
There, you have to fight your way through a teeming mass of street vultures, er vendors, just to get to the store ("Hey lady, you want T-shirt, DVD, postcards?). Then, once inside, you fall prey to the pack of salespeople waiting to pounce upon the next victim. The hunter has become the hunted. (Muzak? who can hear anything except, "buy, buy, buy"?)
You wander, dazed, from stand to stand where everyone is selling the exact same things ("No, really, these are real pearls and diamonds for five dollars. See, I can grind them under my heel and they don't break." Yeah, always the mark of fine jewelry. I understand that's how De Beers tests their diamonds.)
If you pause or make eye contact, they have you and it's all over.
Suddenly, you find yourself surrounded by an endless sea of merchandise. You like rings? They have rings. Silver, Gold, Platinum(aluminum, painted aluminum, tin). Tiffany, Cartier, Harry Winston. (Riiiight) Watches? Rolex, Tag, Patek. (all made of lead) Trays and cases and boxes of whatever you want, or think you want, magically appear. Soon, you are buried under an avalanche of fakes, er genuine imitations.
What size do you want? XL,XXL, or XXXL? (Don't even think of looking at S, M, or L unless you make a supermodel look fat or are six years old. Not a real ego boosting experience when they refer you to the men's section because they don't have anything large enough to fit you in women's. The Chinese are seriously tiny compared to us huge, hulking Americans.)
Finally, desperate to escape, you make your selection. Then, the real fun begins.
They tell you it costs $400. It doesn't matter what it is, everything costs $400. (Of course, in Chinese money, this is eighty million dollars, and you have to do the math in your head, which is always fun.) You offer $1.
They pull at their hair, beat their chests, gnash their teeth...and drop the price to $300. You offer $2.
They tell you how pretty you are. How sweet you are. How smart you are. How that ring/watch/shirt was made for you, and only you because no one else would look good in it...and drop the price to $200. You offer $3.
By the way, this is all conducted via calculator. They enter their price, you hit clear and enter your price, they hit clear...and so on, and so on, and so on...Try that at Neiman Marcus.
Anyway, this goes on for some time. You start to walk away, they follow you, grab you, all but body tackle you. They swear you are killing them...slowly.
Finally, you pay $5-$10 for something that is worth fifty cents, and you are free -- sort of. You still have to fight your way back to the door and the bag you are holding labels you an easy mark.
When you do finally escape, exhausted, you sort through your haul only to find that, caught up in the moment, you now own an enormous pile of junk.
However, now that you've refined your bargaining skills, you are ready to go home and buy that used car you've been looking at for $5.
Here, the rules of engagement are simple: You enter a store and stroll through the aisles where some lovely muzak is playing. Maybe someone offers to help you, or even bring you a soda. You choose an item (or thirty), select the correct size (S,M,L or XL --depending on how the diet is going), and pay what the tag tells you (unless it is on sale, and really, why buy something if it's not?) It's all very simple, very civilized.
Not in China.
There, you have to fight your way through a teeming mass of street vultures, er vendors, just to get to the store ("Hey lady, you want T-shirt, DVD, postcards?). Then, once inside, you fall prey to the pack of salespeople waiting to pounce upon the next victim. The hunter has become the hunted. (Muzak? who can hear anything except, "buy, buy, buy"?)
You wander, dazed, from stand to stand where everyone is selling the exact same things ("No, really, these are real pearls and diamonds for five dollars. See, I can grind them under my heel and they don't break." Yeah, always the mark of fine jewelry. I understand that's how De Beers tests their diamonds.)
If you pause or make eye contact, they have you and it's all over.
Suddenly, you find yourself surrounded by an endless sea of merchandise. You like rings? They have rings. Silver, Gold, Platinum(aluminum, painted aluminum, tin). Tiffany, Cartier, Harry Winston. (Riiiight) Watches? Rolex, Tag, Patek. (all made of lead) Trays and cases and boxes of whatever you want, or think you want, magically appear. Soon, you are buried under an avalanche of fakes, er genuine imitations.
What size do you want? XL,XXL, or XXXL? (Don't even think of looking at S, M, or L unless you make a supermodel look fat or are six years old. Not a real ego boosting experience when they refer you to the men's section because they don't have anything large enough to fit you in women's. The Chinese are seriously tiny compared to us huge, hulking Americans.)
Finally, desperate to escape, you make your selection. Then, the real fun begins.
They tell you it costs $400. It doesn't matter what it is, everything costs $400. (Of course, in Chinese money, this is eighty million dollars, and you have to do the math in your head, which is always fun.) You offer $1.
They pull at their hair, beat their chests, gnash their teeth...and drop the price to $300. You offer $2.
They tell you how pretty you are. How sweet you are. How smart you are. How that ring/watch/shirt was made for you, and only you because no one else would look good in it...and drop the price to $200. You offer $3.
By the way, this is all conducted via calculator. They enter their price, you hit clear and enter your price, they hit clear...and so on, and so on, and so on...Try that at Neiman Marcus.
Anyway, this goes on for some time. You start to walk away, they follow you, grab you, all but body tackle you. They swear you are killing them...slowly.
Finally, you pay $5-$10 for something that is worth fifty cents, and you are free -- sort of. You still have to fight your way back to the door and the bag you are holding labels you an easy mark.
When you do finally escape, exhausted, you sort through your haul only to find that, caught up in the moment, you now own an enormous pile of junk.
However, now that you've refined your bargaining skills, you are ready to go home and buy that used car you've been looking at for $5.
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