Posts Tagged ‘shopping’

Shop Til You Drop (kick someone in the face)

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008

 

When news broke on the weekend about a Wal-Mart employee in New York being trampled to death on the job, you would think it would put everyone off shopping at that establishment. Not me amigos. Oh no. It’s Christmas, bitches and if I have shopping to do, fear of death by trampling will not stop me. And how dangerous can a Wal-Mart in Toronto be really? 

 

I got up early, called my dad, told him where I was going and asked him to pray for me. Let me say at this juncture, I am not a Wal-Mart shopper. I avoid it like flip flops on unpedicured toes. My parents had asked me to get a digital photo frame for my grandmother for Christmas and Wal-Mart was the only place I could find them for a price that wouldn’t involve me having to prostitute myself on weekends. (In the unlikely event that my grandmother has, over the course of the past week, bought a computer, learned how to navigate the interweb and is reading this right now, you’re getting a digital photo frame for Christmas Grammie and you’re gonna bloody like it). 
I get to Wal-Mart (henceforth referred to as ‘Hell’) and had to figure out where to go. Would a digital photo frame be with the electronics, or photo frames or over in the photo shop? Hey, you wanna know a fun game? If you have an hour to kill, go to your local ‘Hell’ and try to find a Wal-Mart employee who knows what the frik is going on. The first worker I asked spoke to me in charades. Throw me a ‘sounds like’ bitch, this ain’t working! She motioned me downstairs. 
Worker number two shrugged and waved me into the photo frame section. I wandered through those three aisles with no luck. I then got lost and ended up in the children’s clothing department somehow. It took me a while to find my way out of that maze and I made my way to the electronics department. 
I asked some 16 year old worker where I could find digital photo frames and he gave me a typical teenage response; ‘I don’t know.’ I stared at him blankly thinking there was more to the sentence, but apparently, that was it. 
‘Well, do you think you could ask someone?’ I asked. ‘Because I’ve come all the way across town to get one.’ I tried to smile but barely managed to mask my inner rage. 
We go to gormless-egit-electronics-department-worker-number-two and his response was also ‘I don’t know.’ ‘They moved a box of ‘em the other day and I don’t where they moved it.’ 
I took a deep breath. Tried to find my happy place. Zen, zen, happy, happy, joy, joy, do not punch him in the nuts, do not put him in a choke hold. Breathe Bangs, just breathe. 


‘Well, do you think you could ask somebody?’ I tried to muster up a smile again, but probably looked like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. 

‘No,’ he says. ‘There’s no way for me to find out where they moved it.’ 

‘I think there is,’ I said. ‘And I think it’s called ‘picking up a phone and asking someone.” I dug my heels in, making sure they knew I wasn’t moving until they found out where these God forsaken digital photo frames were hiding. They asked some other loser who said they ‘could’ be in the photo shop, but they ‘could also’ be upstairs. 

I charged over to the photo shop, where an equally gormless employee finally remembered where he had put the display. As I lay my eyes on it, a light shone from the heavens and a choir of angels sang. An end to this digital ornament madness was in sight. Until I saw some other woman making a beeline for the display. Nuh-uh bitch, back off! I wanted to buy every last one of those muthas, lest I should have a need for a digital photo frame myself any time in the next ten years, I could avoid ever having to go back to Hell to get one. 

Once my purchase was complete, I had to go back home and sleep it off. They entire experience was traumatic. But who wants to high five me for not bitch slapping someone? C’mon, give it to me!  

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A Shopper's Guide to Abercrombie & Fitch

Tuesday, November 11th, 2008


The Yuletide season is fast approaching, bitches. I’m almost done with my Christmas shopping. But, if you’re not a wonder of organization like my good self, fear not, I’m here to help. As a seasoned shopper, I will guide you through the most difficult shops, so that you can take on those bad boys with no fear. Follow these step-by-step guides and you’ll be shopping like it’s a military operation in no time.

 

This week, we tackle Abercrombie & Fitch. Now granted, you have better taste than to step into this minefield of hormones and overpriced tank tops, but, doubtless that niece/little sister/first year college student in your life will throw a grade A bitch fit if you don’t get them something from here. If you’re over the age of 22, Abercrombie makes pretty much no sense. It’s like a secret society. So don’t worry if you feel out of place in there, you’ll see a bunch of other people over the legal drinking age, wandering around aimlessly, close to tears, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. But not you. Oh no. Thanks to this trusty Bangs and a Bun guide, you have got this thing on lock.

 

When approaching an Abercrombie store, you’ll notice there are no window displays. It’s just giant black venetian blinds. Don’t let this throw you off. They’re trying to mess with your head. There actually is a store behind those windows and it has stuff in it.

 

Upon entering, the first thing you’ll notice is a full on assault on your nostrils. That is some special brand of Abercrombie stench that they employ someone especially to spray every minute of the day. You may find that it triggers your gag reflex. I find it helps to throw on a surgical mask before going in. That way, you can bypass the smell and get right down to business without feeling lightheaded.

 

Once inside, you’ll see a couple of topless male models. They have tousled hair, they’re barefoot and their jeans are being held up by nothing more than hope. They are positioned there to remind people like you of your lost youth. I like to just flick their nipples a couple of times. Seriously, try it. It’s a little light hearted fun before you get down to the serious business of the power-browse. But don’t think about doing anything more than a flick of the nipple. If there is tongue-to-nipple contact, you may find yourself being escorted out by security. Just saying.

 

When you’ve finished manhandling the male models, take a deep breath, put your head down and charge in. There are only three things anyone ever wants from Abercrombie; a hoodie, a tank top and some sort of sweat pant with something random written across the ass. Find these things, pick the right colours, pay and get out. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Do not even attempt to try anything on. You’ll be waiting in line till next Christmas.

 

Additional tactics that may be employed under extreme duress; shin kicking, elbow to the ribs, swift poke of the eyeball, a punch to the windpipe. It’s Christmas, bitches. And you’ve got shopping to do. Don’t let them forget that.

 

*Next week we take on the giant drug store.

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The Shoe Nazi

Sunday, October 19th, 2008


Our Kid told me a disturbing story the other day about shoe shopping that left me befuddled and somewhat speechless.

 

A family friend of ours, Ben, felt it was time he got some new footwear. He’s pretty particular about what he roams around in and is willing to spend hefty coin to get the right thing.

 

He went to one of the nicer areas of town where there is a congregation of higher end shoe shops. He went in and immediately felt the assistant was grilling him.

 

He browsed around and picked out a pair he liked. When he approached the assistant, he was greeted with an interrogation.

 

What would he be using the shoes for?

 

Umm…walking around? What did he expect the answer to be? Actually, I plan on wearing them on my hands when I do cartwheels. I also need them for rock climbing, ice hockey practice and kicking people in the shins.

 

How often would he be wearing them?

 

As often as he feels like it.

 

This was not the answer our not-so-friendly shoe salesman wanted to hear. Aghast, he expressed that wearing them every day simply would not do. You should not wear good shoes more than twice a week (according to the Shoe Nazi) and you should put shoe trees in after each wear. Umm, it’s really not that serious dude. Ben just wants some new scooby doos. Apparently, this lecture on shoe care went on for twenty minutes.

 

At the end of it, the guy flat out refused to sell him the shoes! What kind of shit is that?! Seriously, I admire his dedication to his work, but no shoe is so sacred that it can’t be worn more than twice a week. Get over yourself! And the shoe should get over itself too! What a diva. Not to mention the fact that these shoes were £260 (which I think is about $10 million in the current economy). I’m sure this guy must work on commission. You’re gonna let your misguided ethics get in the way of you earning a buck? You’re a damn egit.

 

In the words of Mr T – I pity the fool that refuses to sell me a shoe. Trust me, it would get ugly.

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Shopping Around

Monday, August 25th, 2008


I’m more of a boutique shopper myself, but when I do go to larger retail outlets, I get freaked out by the military precision with which they’re run.

 

Everyone has their posts. There’s The Greeter; the second you’ve got one foot in the place, they’ll pipe up. “Hi! How are you today?!” There’s two types of Greeter; the peppy greeter and the one who couldn’t give a shit how you’re doing – they’re just counting the minutes till 6pm so they can put on their glad rags and go get their drink on.

 

The second you make it past The Greeter, you run into the Happy Helper.

 

“Do you need any help finding anything today?” they ask. I don’t know, can I get my foot in the door first?

 

As you browse around, you notice The Folders. It’s their job to fold and re-fold the same fifteen T Shirts for their entire shift. This job is usually reserved for two people; the new kid and the bitch who was working the cash register last week, but fucked up a transaction, so got relegated to folding (her stank attitude lets you know that she considers the T Shirt table to be totally beneath her).

 

One thing they all have in common now is the head sets. Have you ever tried asking someone in the Gap for another size? They look at you, then their eyes drift off into the distance. They put one hand on their hip and another to their ear. You follow their gaze to try figure out what the hell they’re doing.

“Jodie, check for an 8 in the black pencil skirt in the back…no, an eight….the black one!…” Then all mention of the skirt is lost and these two members of the Rhythm Nation are just working their head sets to giggle about whatever private joke is popular at the Gap at the time.

 

If you can hang around long enough for them to find your size, you then have to make it through the fitting room.

 

Fitting room procedures are either equivalent to airport security or so lax that if it weren’t for your intense fear of prison, you would totally steal everything you’ve been checking out. When you get into the fitting room, someone will knock on the door and asks how it fits before you’ve even managed to get a shoe off, or leave you standing in the cubicle, shivering and naked for half an hour while they engage in some more Rhythm Nation communication to get you another size.

 

And all of this takes place to ear piercing electronica soundtrack that makes you rush through the store with a sense of urgency unlike anything you’ve ever known.

 

To think, you just went through all of that, just for a $40 tank top.

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Operation Eat Right

Monday, July 28th, 2008


I am crossing things off my life list like you wouldn’t believe bitches!

 

Last week, I met with a nutritionist and shared all my dirty little secrets about my crappy diet. Talk about embarrassing.

 

I’ve always had issues with food. I have food sensitivities, can’t eat wheat blah blah blah. But mainly, I’m just a picky eater. Sure, one would think you’d grow out of that by the time you’re 27, but apparently not. As such, I find grocery shopping intensely intimidating. I have mini panic attacks in the supermarket. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be buying, so I just buy all the wrong stuff to get the process over with – and then I don’t even eat it. Yeah, like I said, “issues.”

 

So, I met with a nutritionist. She asked what I wanted to focus on and I told her, in a nutshell, I don’t know how to feed myself, I’m very intimidated by the supermarket and don’t know what to buy. She nodded and had a very understanding look on her face. “When I go to other peoples houses for dinner,” I tell her, “they have shit in their cupboards. What is that shit and am I supposed to have it?” The look on her face went from understanding, to disbelief.

 

Nonetheless, she waded through my pool of stupidity and got to work on a list of ‘staples’ that I should always have in my house, some of which, I couldn’t pronounce. Yes, I will be living in the healthy/natural foods/organic/bird food section of the grocery store for quite some time.

 

Armed with my new, unpronouncable shopping list, I made my way down to the grocery store, making a solemn vow to myself to not leave until I’d done the job. (On the way there, I got distracted by a great little antiques market – that kind of shopping seemed much more exciting than hunting down nutrients for my body. But as a testament to how serious I am about this ‘get healthy’ thing, I managed to pass up a great deal on a vintage Christian Dior bag, in favour of the pursuit for green veggie things and something called ‘fruit’.)

 

I got to the supermarket and got that familiar panicky feeling. I got a cart (yes, a cart! And I was actually going to put things in it!) and started my long, arduous mission. Part of what makes it so intimidating for me is that everyone else in there looks like they know what they’re doing – I just feel like a big phony because I’m winging it (and of course, because I’m an adult who eats like a frikkin’ toddler). But this time, I had my list. It took me one hour to get through it (no, I’m not shopping for a family of twelve, just myself), but I came out alive.

 

I’m sure you’re reading this somewhat befuddled as to why I consider a trip to the supermarket such an achievement. I don’t want to have to fill you in on the 27 years of my existence, but trust me, I just overcame a huge hurdle in my life.

 

Now, I have shit in my cupboards, just like a regular person. I just need to figure out what the hell to do with it.

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There's a New Man in my Life

Tuesday, June 17th, 2008


It’s the dawn of a new day bitches! And this day involves me riding a bike. Yup, that’s how I roll. Literally.

 

On Saturday, after weeks of intense pondering, I decided to bite the bullet and buy myself a two-wheeled wonder. Understand, I had not been on a bike since I was about 12, so it was a big decision, centered mainly around how ridiculous I would look on it.

 

Saturday morning, bright and early, I took myself to Canadian Tire to test drive a few bikes. I had had my heart set on a cruiser, but it was way bigger than I thought it would be. I couldn’t figure out a dainty way to swing my leg over the seat. Just then, I glanced to my left and there He was. The bike of my dreams. A spotlight zoomed in on it and a choir of angels sang as the voice of God (played by the voice of Tim Gunn of TV’s Project Catwalk) said, ‘Oh honey, that’s the one.’

 

It’s a Schwinn folding bike in a fetching shade of maroon (normally not a great color, but on my bike, it’s the shit, OK?) I told my sales assistant (a guy in his 40s who had a weave that made him look like a pimp from the 70s) ‘pump up those tires, I’m taking that bad boy!’

 

A few minutes later, I out of the store, but too scared to actually ride the bike, so I just walked with it for a few blocks trying to look cool. Three blocks later, I decided I had to get on. I mounted Clooney (yes, that is what I named him. Let’s face it, it’s the closest I’m going to get to George) and after a couple of shaky seconds, I was cruising. I decided to bike to another shop to buy myself a good lock. It was a perfect day for biking; the sunshine, the wind blowing through my hair, the near brushes with death – it made me feel alive, I tell ya!

 

I bought the lock and biked home. But I could not stay put. I was looking for any excuse to get out on Clooney. I biked to the other side of town to visit my friend at work. I biked home. I biked to get a facial. I biked home. I biked to my friend’s house party. I biked home. By the end of the day, I’d clocked up over 20 miles.

 

Sunday, I cycled downtown again to get a basket for Clooney. The guys in the shop convinced me to get two; one on the front for my purse and one on the back for ‘cargo’. I’m not exactly sure what ‘cargo’ I’ll have, but I liked the fact that they thought I might have some. ‘So, you can just attached them on there and you’re good to go,’ says the dopey sales assistant. ‘Um, that would imply that I own tools, ‘ I say. ‘Do I look like I own tools?’ Dopey sales guy agreed that his assumption was stupid as hell and got to work screwing on the baskets.

 

Then I rode Clooney uptown to go shoe shopping. I went in for shoes and came out with sandals, a clutch purse, earrings and a bangle. (I blame my lack of focus on the heat.) When I finally emerged from the store, I felt a few raindrops. I dashed across the street to where I’d parked Clooney, shoved my goods in my ‘cargo’ basket and scrambled to get on the seat. I had barely cycled a couple of yards when the heavens opened and absolutely drenched me. Let me tell you, rain hurts when you’re going at high speeds! I just wanted to get home as quickly as possible so I kept peddling, saying ‘ow, ow, OW!’ as the rain thrashed against my face and soaked through my clothes. By the mid-way point, I was praising Jesus that I had decided to wear a bra.

 

I made it home before the thunder and lightening hit. I lay in bed, watched the sky light up and listened to the thunder, feeling satisfied that I finally made a commitment to get active. My ass is killing me and my legs are in a constant state of cramp, but it is damn worth it.

 

So, here’s to Clooney, the new man in my life (and to me having buns of steel by august).

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Breathe in and Zip

Friday, January 18th, 2008


The first time I went shopping in Japan, I thought I kept wandering into the children’s department by accident. I stumbled across size 22 jeans and figured they were for teenyboppers, but apparently fully-grown women really are that small there. It’s like living amongst The Borrowers.

 

I’m a regular sized chick; 5’9” 140 pounds. I have these things called ‘hips’, which are apparently unheard of in Japan. Japanese women, beautiful as they are, tend to have the bodies of twelve year old boys. Luckily, I don’t have any body issues, I’m happy the way I am, but it would’ve been quite easy for me to feel obese in that nation of Twiggies.

 

Not being able to buy clothes there wouldn’t have bothered me so much if the clothes weren’t so damn nice. Tokyo is, by far, the most fashionable city on earth, streaks ahead of London, Paris or anywhere else that matters. Everyone there has a built in sense of style, from the Harajuku girls with their verging-on-comical costumes, to the designer divas of Ginza. Virtually every woman you see has a designer handbag; Dior, Fendi, Prada, Gucci, Louis – all so common there they’d throw their laundry in them. I never saw a badly dressed person there. I kept hoping I’d see someone break out a shell suit to throw everyone off, but it never happened.

 

As a ‘big girl’, shopping in Tokyo is a cruel form of torture. Occasionally, if I searched hard enough, I could find a top that could contain my swimmers shoulders, but anything for the bottom half was pretty much a no-no. I once tried on a pair of trousers in one uber-trendy Shibuya store, but I couldn’t even get one butt cheek in them. Handing them back to the assistant, she said in her broken English “Ahh, you’re too big!” with a slight smirk. I gave her a polite smile and thought about the day she’d be giving birth. Bet you wish you had my childbearing hips now don’t you, bitch?!

 

Another store, where I was being forced by the sales assistant to try things on, despite me trying to explain that I was too big for anything in the store, she actually resorted to getting me men’s jeans to try on. That’s not embarrassing at all. The only store where clothes fit was Zara. I wasn’t a big fan before I went to Japan, but I single handedly kept that store afloat while I was there.

 

What’s crazy is that as tiny as Japanese women are, they have all the same body issues as western women. I lost count of the number of women I knew on diets and various weight loss programs. When I was younger, I hated how I was taller and a bigger size than all my friends. These days, I’m happy to have hips and not just hip bones. I have an actual stomach, as opposed to a concave space between my chest and pelvis. I embrace my lovely lady humps for better or worse!

 

So, if you ever find yourself shopping in Tokyo, don’t lose sight of the fact that you are a normal sized person. Forget the ‘I’ll just lose a couple of pounds’ culture, love your curves and take your fat ass to Zara.

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