US Weekly’s Cover Story—How can you be shocked Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards are getting divorced? It’s Charlie Fucking Sheen. Your cover story should have read “Can You Believe It Lasted This Long?”
The Squirrel—You almost gave Fletch a fucking heart attack when you popped out of the garbage can and lunged at him à la Christmas Vacation. Excuse me, but he has far too much cholesterol in his arteries to sustain that kind of shock. (And I’m too young to be a widow.)
Also?
I don’t appreciate laughing myself into a pant-wetting asthma attack upon witnessing my 6'2", 215-pound spouse screaming like a little girl while being chased across an icy parking lot by five pounds of furry rabid fury.
Off to go kick something,
Jen
P.S. Yes, I realize I dropped five f-bombs in this note. (Fuck you for counting.)
* * *
Church of the Magnificent Mile
A few years ago I used to take shopping so seriously it was less of a habit and more of a religion. Every chance I got, I’d steal away between appointments or at lunch in order to maintain my daily communicate status, worshipping at the Church of the Magnificent Mile. I’d make my way down Michigan Ave, stopping to pay my respects at the lesser deities: Sephora for their Fresh soy skin-care line and giant perfume selection,1 the Body Shop for products with a conscience, Lord & Taylor for Jockey for Her underwear,2 Marshall Field’s for scarves and hair accessories, Pottery Barn for casual home décor except for glassware, which was Crate & Barrel’s domain, Burberry if I felt like a little something plaid and pretty, and Les Vosges because carrying heavy shopping bags made me hungry for $30-a-pound chocolate-coated toffee. I’d tithe portions of my salary at each of these stores until I got to any one of the members of the Holy Trinity—Bloomingdale’s, Nordstrom, Neiman Marcus—and the real purchasing commenced.
Bloomingdale’s was my preferred spot for staples, such as fur-trimmed coats, bathing suits, and cashmere sweaters, while Nordstrom was the best place for multiple shoe purchases. (Really, those poor salespeople worked on commission—it would have been a sin to make them run into the back for only one pair!) Neiman Marcus was my absolute favorite place for ridiculous designer splurge items—jewelry, purses, and sunglasses. Plus Neiman’s made it so damn difficult to buy anything—they wouldn’t take Visa or MasterCard; basically they’d only accept cash, Krugerrand, and black diamond truffles—walking out of there with my shiny silver carrier bag always felt like a bit of a victory.
My shopping habit was so all-encompassing that I had to construct a list of rules so friends could better understand the process. But rather than sending them down on a couple of heavy tablets from Mount Sinai,3 I simply e-mailed them.
The Jen Commandments of Shopping
Thou shall not buy on sale. Because sale? Is another word for shit not good enough to be purchased full price.
There’s no such thing as too many twinsets. And you shall not rest until you have them in Every. Single. Color. (Except orange, because, you know, ick.)
Remember the three most important things when buying shoes: Italian, Italian, and Italian.
Life is too short to wear synthetic. Our Heavenly Father would not have placed all those goats in the hills of Kashmir4 if He wanted you to put on something fashioned from a recycled Mountain Dew bottle.
Salespeople are there to carry the heavy stuff for you. So let them. See also: Cold Beverages, Running to fetch.
Coupons are for amateurs. What good is a $400 sweater if you can’t tell people you paid $400 for it? See also: Commandment, First.
“Outlets” are for plugs and creative expression, not malls. Is style so trivial to you that you’re willing to purchase your clothes at a store situated between the place where they sell the deformed Goldfish crackers and designer impostor perfumes? I think not.
Only shop in stores that have a philosophy. Hell, yes, you should pay 10 percent more for a store with a philosophy. (Even if that philosophy is, “Let’s sucker our customers into paying 10 percent more.”)
The harder to pay, the better it is. Self-explanatory. See also: Marcus, Neiman.
People who say “less is more” are simply jealous. More is always more. This is precisely the reason people go gaga over twins and litters of puppies and why a matched set of Kate Spade luggage is so much better than a single piece.
Even though I treasured almost every item sold in each of the Holy Trinity’s bountiful departments, the merchandise wasn’t the only draw. I loved the service and the personal attention. Nothing made me happier than when my girl Basha at Nordstrom’s Dior counter called me to tell me about a new line of body shimmer. It made me feel like she had ESP; how did she know that very morning I’d looked at myself in the mirror and thought, Yes, you glow, but are you luminous enough?
No matter how chaotic Michigan Ave was, I knew I could enter the pricey enclaves of my favorite places and it would be calm, cool, and quiet. Clerks would speak in hushed tones—almost reverent—and would wrap my pair of capri pants and Lacoste shirt with the same care they would use to package Waterford crystal for shipping. There would be few other shoppers around, and we’d rarely interact because we were all too involved with our own expeditions.
My little boy-friend who worked the David Yurman counter would squeal whenever he saw me pass, sibilantly exclaiming, “Ooh! What are we treating ourssselvesss with today?” and before I could say, “Nothing, thanks,” he’d be waving a black velvet-covered platter full of sssparkly thingsss at me. And it would have been rude not to try—and purchassse—at leassst one of them, right?
Obviously, I don’t live my life like this anymore (a) because I can’t, and (b) because I like to think I have some small capacity for “learning.” I’ll be honest—I still dig buying stuff, but that’s mostly because at the nadir of our unemployment, purchasing anything other than dog food and toilet paper was a luxury. I still believe in the Holy Trinity, except now it’s Target, Trader Joe’s, and IKEA.
After selling off the bulk of our nice stuff while out of work, we began to replenish our household at Target when things turned around. I don’t exactly know what happened to Target in the twenty years since I was a cashier there, but hot damn, have they changed! In 1985 I was mortified to get my off-to-college supplies at that stupid discount store. I remember grudgingly shoving a boring tan-and-brown comforter—the nicest-looking one they had—into my cart and then wanting to die a thousand deaths a week later when my adorable freshman roommate arrived with an equally adorable pastel tulip-sprigged Marimekko quilt.
There were no coordinated goods when I worked at Target and Cynthia Rowley for damn sure had nothing to do with my ugly-ass bedding. Yet now when I stroll Target’s home department, there’s nothing but gorgeous, high-quality, low-priced styles as far as the eye can see. What’s your pleasure? The faded florals of shabby chic? Rich, shimmering jewel tones of the Far East? Nubby wools and flannels inspired by the North Woods? Any designer you’d prefer? Isaac Mizrahi? Michael Graves? Thomas O’Brien? Then step right up! Stripes? Plaids? Geometrics? Yeah, they’ve got it, and in every color, too. And don’t forget the matching rugs and bathroom accessories, like toothbrush holders, shower curtains, and towels.
And can we please discuss their clothing? Twenty years ago I’d have rather stayed in and studied than gone to a party in anything with a Target label. And yet recently when shopping for a new mop I passed by their women’s section and saw a tan tapestry coat with a detachable fur collar. I tried the coat on and it fit as though I’d had it custom-made. As I had never seen outerwear this cute in my life, I forgot about the mop, threw the tapestry masterpiece in my basket, and made a mad dash for the checkout line, assuming the minute the rest of the female shoppers saw it, I’d have to fight them for it. None of the outerwear I bought at Bloomingdale’s ever garnered the compliments I’ve gotten on my $60 Target coat.5
Recently my Target added a Starbucks and started selling wine, pretty much cementing
it as my favorite store on the face of this earth, and if ever asked what the one thing is I’d take with me to a desert island, I’d say Target, of course.
That is, if I didn’t have to take their current staff with me.
First, I have been a Target cashier, so I know that of which I speak. Although the merchandise has changed over the years, the basic exchange of goods for currency has not. Back when I worked there, we had no scanners. We had to key in every single bar code in order to check people out and we weren’t supposed to look at the cash register when we did it.6 If you bought it, we bagged it, and God help us if we put your cookies anywhere near your motor oil. The managers who stood at the end of the conveyor helped us speed things along not by bagging but by loudly providing constructive criticism about every single one of our stupid mistakes.
The managers in my store were particularly sadistic and would run time and motion studies on each of us cashiers, making wagers on who could process the most customers per hour. Then they’d place our scores up on the break room wall with our names on them and helpful motivational phrases, like “Ring faster, you loser!” Also, we had to dress professionally under our smocks with earrings no larger than a dime, clear nail polish, no facial hair,7 and panty hose, managers reserving the right to yell at us like drill sergeants were we to be remiss in any of the above areas. One day I forgot to put on knee-highs and flashed an inch of bare ankle; from the reprimanding I received, you’d have thought I’d kicked each and every customer in the big box.
Let me just say this—my old managers do not work at the Target where I shop. There’s one kid there who sits on a stool to ring people up, and he wears a towel around his neck to mop up where he sweats from all the not-standing. He won’t even lift your purchases, making you scoot them across the scanner yourself. Yet I’ve seen him literally run out the door to smoke, and am pretty sure I once saw him hoist a case of beer onto his shoulder at my grocery store, so I don’t know why he merits a stool. And does he bring his own towel? Or just rotate the sweaty one back into stock? I kind of don’t want to think about it.
As for the rest of the staff, they don’t quite adhere to the rules of yore, either. Neck tattoos? Check. Hickeys and neck tattoos? Check. Giant gold nameplate necklaces that spell out M-u-t-h-a-f-u-c-k-a? Muthafuckin’ check! I imagine if these cashiers manage to show up wearing pants not tenuously clinging to their kneecaps, their bosses are probably happy.
In my day,8 we got in big trouble if we didn’t say, “Welcome and thank you for shopping at Target,” to every customer as they approached our lane. Apparently these rules no longer apply, as usually my cashier will look at me with dead shark eyes, ring up my wonderful new items without a word, and then stare at me once the total appears on the register while the bagger carefully mixes my bleach, ammonia, and Pringles in the same bag. I’m at the point where I now say, “Hi, thanks for ringing me up here at Target. How much is my total?”
In all fairness, I’ve read mine is the busiest Target in the world per square foot, so maybe everyone is just really jaded and tired of the crowds? Plus, I’ve heard their cashiers speaking ten different languages, so I, Miss Whitey McXenophobe, should perhaps cut them some terry-cloth-covered, stool-seated slack.
The downside of the Target experience, at least at the urban Targets, is that something ridiculous happens every time we visit. Sometimes we get to see shoplifters get busted; occasionally it’s a bit of domestic violence with a dash of stock-boy bitch-slapping when a rain check is offered in lieu of the sold-out sale Pampers. (Fortunately, there’s never less than one of Chicago’s Finest shopping there, squad car perched right on the curb, so it’s totally safe.)
Not long ago, I’m on my daily pilgrimage to Target and have just finished paying for an Us Weekly and some mini Hershey’s bars when I see another customer’s child do something troubling. “Excuse me, ma’am?” I say to the woman behind me. “Your son just ate a piece of gum stuck to the construction barrier in front of the new Starbucks.”
With zero clue as to what I’ve said, she asks, “¿Qué?”
“I said your child is chewing someone else’s gum. He picked it off the wall and put it in his mouth. I thought you might want to know.”
She frowns at me. “¿Qué?”
Damn it, how do I make her understand? “The baby?” I point at the little boy in the shirt with the rooster on it. “Over there? He’s yours, right? He’s chewing old gum and—ugh—right now, look, he’s peeling more off the wall and stuffing it in his mouth.”
“¿Qué?”
I raise my voice. Fletch says everyone understands English if you speak loudly enough. Or maybe he says everyone speaks English at gunpoint? I forget. “Your boy. Your, um, damn it, what’s the word? I know how to say it in Italian. Um, niño? Bambino?” I point at Little Rooster Boy. “Ate gum.” I point at the wall and the Wrigley display behind us. “That had been in someone else’s mouth.” I point at my own mouth and Fletch’s, making chewing motions. “He’s going to get worms!” I hold my hands up to my face and make little squiggly motions with my fingers.
“¿Qué?” She turns to the cashier and asks, “¿Qué dijo la ramera loca?” and the cashier then rattles something back at her in rapid-fire Spanish and they both shrug. The woman yells some gibberish to the Little Rooster Boy, who toddles back over to be picked up and placed in the front of her cart.
Aha! Now we’re getting somewhere! “Yes, yes, exactly! No more stinky danger gum! You’re welcome!” We walk out of the store and I’m delighted to have been a Good Samaritan. “See, Fletch? You always tell me not to get involved, but I did and it paid off. They were glad that I stepped in. People really appreciate it when you try to help.”
“Um, Jen? I’m pretty sure she just called you a crazy bitch,” he tells me.
“Oh.” I really need to learn Spanish.
But no matter what language you say it in, Target is a little slice of heaven.
The second prong in my revised Trinity is IKEA, the Swedish home store monolith. If you’re unfamiliar, they carry every single thing you could possibly ever need to fill your home and garden at low, low prices, but in obscure Swedish sizes so those items won’t coordinate with anything else you own, like, say, if you want to put a regular Target lamp shade on your IKEA lamp. Fletch thinks it’s Sweden’s master plan to make Americans so busy trying to construct furniture with Allen wrenches that we don’t notice they’ve invaded us. (Personally, I think it’s payback; the Swedes are pissed that we aren’t buying ABBA albums anymore.)
The IKEA I frequent is in the suburbs and is so big you can actually see it from space.9 Seriously, it’s three stories tall and has special escalators for your cart to ride down next to you. There are also giant multilanguage signs in front of it saying:
* * *
DO NOT PUT YOUR BABY STROLLER ON HERE YOU DUMBASS BECAUSE IT’S A CONVEYOR BELT AND YOU DON’T PUT YOUR BABY ON A CONVEYOR AND EXACTLY HOW STUPID ARE YOU THAT WE HAVE TO REPEAT THIS TEN TIMES AND WITH A PICTURE OF A BABY STROLLER WITH A SLASH THROUGH IT AND HOW DID YOU NOT NOTICE THIS SAME SIGN POINTING TO THE NICE SAFE ELEVATOR TEN FEET AWAY?
* * *
Which would lead you to believe we wouldn’t see people trying to put their strollers on it every time we visit. (And you wouldn’t think Fletch and I laugh ourselves stupid every time we see this happen either, yet here we are.)
Except possibly Las Vegas, there’s no better place to people-watch than our IKEA. Were the FBI to pay attention to my helpful suggestions (or return my calls), they’d know to set up a camera at the front door, because at some point every single person on the face of the earth eventually passes through it. I don’t care how rich or poor you are, the draw of purchasing twelve hundred tea lights for thirty-seven cents is too great for anyone to resist.
Fletch and I are fortifying ourselves with big plates full of delicious Swedish meatballs and lingonberry sauce with lingonberry soda and lingonberry tarts for dessert10 at a table overlooking the scratch-and
-dent section two floors below us before we commit commerce.
Fletch chews a meatball thoughtfully and then says, “You know, coming to IKEA is a lot like doing tequila shots.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Because when someone suggests it, it seems like a fantastic idea—big fun and all—but in the morning you wake up nauseous in the middle of a pile of table legs, with no idea how you got there, and swearing to never do it again.”
I agree. “And then once your hangover’s gone, you forget all about it, so the next time someone says, ‘Hey, let’s do shots!’ you’re like, ‘Capital idea!’ and the cycle continues.”
“But not us. Because today we’re just going to look at that one lamp shade and a nightstand and we’re out of here. We’re not going to spend four hundred dollars and we aren’t going to be here for three hours. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” As we eat I notice a pattern occurring in the scratch-and-dent section. “Fletch, check out that dresser down there.”
“Which one? The maple laminate one like we have in our bedroom?”
“Yes. Watch—every single person who goes by it is going to open the drawers, even though I bet they have no plans to buy it.” We keep an eye on the piece for the next five minutes, and sure enough every single passerby opens a drawer.
“Whoa, Fletch, watch that lady—she’s opened the drawer at least forty times. Drawer open, drawer close. Drawer open, drawer close. What is she checking for? ‘Perhaps if I open the drawer this time, it will be full of kittens? Nope. Better close it and try again.’” We continue to observe and giggle. “Ha! Her daughter joined her and now she’s opening and closing the drawers. Drawer open, drawer close. Drawer open, drawer close. Once you establish that each of the five drawers is properly on the track, why would you open and close them eight thousand more times?”
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 3