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Suburban Diva IPS Features |
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As the busy shopping season approaches, we will all no doubt find ourselves in a store or 80, but there are a few that this savvy shopper will avoid like a Chinese Toy Store on Three Mile Island. We tend to shop by habit. We frequent the stores that we feel the most comfortable in, however unreasonably subjective that may be. I know I drive a little further to go the grocery store that I think has the fresher produce, passing up the one that has the fresher cashiers. There are shops in the Mall that I have never even entered because I don’t like the music they blare or the wafting scent of wet cardboard and patchouli oil with a hint of silica gel packets. I pass up a very nice boutique because the “Diamond Nailz” kiosk is set up in front, and that Russian woman yelling at me that I need a manicure is just more than I can take. These shopping behaviors are all a matter of personal taste and opinion. But then there are other stores that are specifically designed to frustrate us and make the chore of shopping into a complete and utterly ridiculous journey through the looking glass. Take wholesale clubs, for instance. We don’t need a license to have children, but for some reason we need one to buy a gross of Mallomars or 450 waffles at a time. Why we need a membership to shop at any store is beyond me, but by requiring an annual fee and a plastic card with a gold star on it suggests exclusivity. But exclusive to what? Can only the most discriminating consumer buy a 5-gallon jug of Teriyaki sauce? I understand the economic concept of buying in bulk for a discount, but why does a “club” need to exist for it? It’s not like anyone can’t gain access to the club. I think the only membership requirement is gullibility and an unnatural attraction to buying double-yolked eggs, a case of motor oil, and 4 bushels of flax seed in the same aisle. Hi, Suburban Diva, Member since 1994. Another store that I find to be needlessly complicated is the beauty supply store. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the misfortune of frequenting such an idiotic establishment, but let me give you a written tour. First off, the only reason I went in the first place is because it is the only retail outlet that sells a decent hair straightener. The models sold at normal stores don’t get hot enough to straighten anything, so I just ended up giving my still-curly hair an inconclusive mammogram every day. Anyway, I walked up to the counter to pay for my purchases, and that is when the inquisition from the cashier began. “Do you have your license?” Not questioning why she needed my driver’s license when I was paying with cash, I handed over the card apologizing for the picture. Something about a windstorm and a cotton candy machine malfunction. “No, your beautician’s license,” she sighed. “Well, no. I, uh, am not a beautician by trade, thus explaining that DMV photo,” I attempted to clarify. She harrumphed. “That’s professional grade shampoo you’re buying.” “My stylist said it was okay if I used it responsibly. I promised to rinse and repeat like the label says…I know I have a prescription in here somewhere,” I pled rifling through my purse. “I’ll have to call her to get authorization on this.” As I waited humiliated, I wondered if my spam folder contained any offers for conditioner from Canadian manufacturers. I never did find that prescription, so don’t expect any boar bristle brushes from me this Christmas. In fact, the only thing I did find in that labyrinth of a wallet of mine was my warehouse store membership card—apparently obtained on the same day as my driver’s license judging from the picture. I sure hope Santa can fit a 20 gallon drum of pickle relish and a palette of grape soda on his sleigh this Christmas.
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