JUST ANOTHER REASON WHY I HATE SHOPPING

Let me be frank right from the start: I used to work retail management. I'm not some a-hole from the street trying to be a "Karen" (I despise that term, by the way, because it implies that only blond white females and those identifying as such are bitches).

I'm in Target. It's crowded. It's the holiday season. People are trying to get shit done. I totally understand this. I am one of these trying-to-get-shit-done shoppers. So, I have zero problem with standing in a line for a register. To a point.

I pick a line, not the shortest line, but I don't care because I understand that time has no meaning when Christmas shopping; it's like we've all entered some parallel universe or some plane of Salvador Dali surrealism. I get up close, almost close enough to put my stuff on the belt. I'm NEXT! Yes, next next next next!

The cashier puts on her flashing light. This is never a good sign. The front-line manager comes over, and the cashier says that she needs to run quickly to the bathroom. The manager, a young person, says, "Shut off your light and close down." Then, and this is a FATAL mistake by management who are just standing around chatting with their coworkers within eyesight of customers, the manager walks away and continues her animated conversation and tapping on her cell phone.

The cashier shuts off her light. I look behind me. I am now the only person in her line. I say, "But you're taking me, right?" She gives me the deer in the headlight stare. "Right?" I repeat.

"But I have to go to the bathroom," she says.

No kidding, sweetheart. I heard that, and I watched your relief walk away. I shake my head because, hey, time has absolutely no legs at this point. I leave the line I finally managed to conquer, and go get behind another long line for a different cashier.

Here is where the Target management staff could've handled this differently. They could have responded this way:

1.  I'll ring for you while you run to the bathroom that is literally twenty feet from the register.

2.  Are you going to be quick? Perhaps the next person can unload her carriage while you run over to the door that's right here next to my foot where I am standing.

3.  Oh, ma'am, I'm so sorry. Let me ring you up over at Customer Service.

4.  Take the next customer and then you can go. Make sure to put up your "closed" sign.

Instead, I get home even later -- Salvador Dali later -- and the cashier is back to her station before I have even unloaded my few items onto the new register in the new line. I get it, I really do. It's retail, and gawd knows we're lucky anyone wants to work these days (although I'm not quite sure what parental or governmental assistance programs these people have managed to locate that I cannot seem to discover). 

However, as the recipient of the "Hey, we're kind of lazy assholes working here" treatment, I am not really in the cheerful mood to be that forgiving. Just another reason why online shopping is booming and your local retail stores . . . well . . . they're not, nor do they deserve to be.

SUGAR FOR LUNCH

 Anyone who teaches knows and cringes at the dreaded term "Professional Development." It's actually a euphemism for "Talking Down to Teachers While They are Tortured Simply for Being Teachers." 

Professional Development, or PD, usually involves hours of wasted time that end with a directive to do more hours of completely different work that has to be done RIGHT NOW without actually giving anyone time to complete whatever random task has been assigned. There is usually zero professionalism and absolutely no development. Ever.

Friday's PD is no different. We are subjected to hours of trying to fit square pegs into round holes. Remember those toys from when you were a toddler? Yes, even two-year-old children know and understand that this task will NEVER work, yet "educated" administrators still assign this task to professional educators as if somehow the toymakers were WRONG.

To quote Cher Horowitz: "As if!"

The only saving grace on Friday is that our wonderful PTO sponsors a hot chocolate bar. We are treated to all kinds of additives, none healthy thank goodness, and all kinds of treats and cookies. It is the only way to fortify for a too-long afternoon of insanity.

I load up my plate with cookies, and I load my hot chocolate with white chocolate bits, and semi-chocolate bits, and peppermint, and marshmallows, and chocolate sticks, and then I top it all off with whipped cream and caramel syrup. I don't even bother with my lunch at this point. I'm just mainlining sugar.

It works in my favor, though. Due to the instant jolt, I am able to stay awake and multitask during the presentation. I write lesson plans, make comments under my breath, somewhat pay attention, and solve an entire Sudoku before I even get to my second meeting. 

Apparently the secret to surviving PD is to skip lunch and go right to the sweets. I hereby dub PD to stand for Post-Dessert from this day forward.

WAYLAID BY WEGMANS

My friend entertains me while my car is being serviced, and we have an epic adventure in and around the Burlington shopping area. This is the same area that is booming with stand-alone stores and small outdoor malls that mimic Southern shopping (hilarious concept here in the North since we can only tolerate being outside in the wind and icy air for about ten seconds for months at a time). 

My friend decides we're going to take a trip to Wegmans. Well, at first it's just a conceptual suggestion until she discovers that I have never been to Wegmans. That's right. I. Have. Never. Been. For those of you who are Wegmans regulars, this must seem like an alien idea to you.

The first thing I notice is that Wegmans has its own parking garage. Yup. Garage. It reminds me of Ikea, which is ironic because Wegmans turns out to be the Ikea of the food world. On our way in, we grab a carriage and turn into the open area. 

And I very nearly crap my drawers.

If ever a place were sensory overload, this is it. It's more enthralling than a street carnival, more flashy than Vegas, and has more stock in it than Market Basket's warehouse. I am shocked (shocked, I tell you) and a bit overwhelmed. Thank goodness I am not here alone because I have no flaming idea where to start.

My pal suggests lunch at the Wegmans café. I mutely follow, completely slack-jawed at the prepared food selection. I can't decide. It's a bit much for my senses. "Pizza" is about the only word that I am able to mumble, so we head toward that area and get our lunch. 

After we eat (which is very tasty; some garlic and cheese and white sauce pizza that I highly recommend), we hit the aisles of the store. At every turn I can only stare as if every damn thing in the place has suddenly become a bevy of shiny objects.

In the end, I am completely overwhelmed. Wegmans is what Christmas would look like if it were strictly a commercial holiday. If Stan Freeberg's Green Christmas could see this place, he wouldn't be singing, "You better cash in while the spirit lingers, it's slipping through your fingers, boys. Christmas can be such a monetary joy!" Green Christmas is Wegman's; Wegmans is Green Christmas (and Einhorn is Finkle).

I manage to get out of Wegmans with some beer -- Sam Adams holiday pack -- but I easily could've and would've dropped a huge wad of cash had I been a little less shell-shocked by the sheer magnitude of the inventory. I'm prepared now, though. The blinders have been ripped away, and I will live to fight Wegmans another day.

WHEN ELITE NO LONGER MEANS ELITE IN THE WORLD OF SPORTS CARS

 Leaving work, I find myself behind a nondescript SUV. SUVs are all starting to look the same to me. I drive a black sedan, and I cannot even count on both hands how many times I've tried to get into someone else's car because I thought it was mine. All these vehicles these days look the same.

Try to imagine my surprise when the somewhat passive looking SUV in front of me bears the insignia Maserati. That's right. Yes, folks, apparently the elite sports car company Maserati makes an ordinary-looking, bland, rather forgettable sports utility vehicle.

And just like that, the idea of Maserati falls feet . . . yards . . . miles in my esteem.

I suppose if you do one thing well, might as well screw it up by making something that is totally not your brand. But what a bargain. The SUV is only about $100,000. At least the Maserati mini van is under $80,000.

Wait. Maserati makes a flipping mini van?

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Maserati is owned by Fiat, which produces the most uncomfortable tiny car that I have ever driven: The Fiat 500 Pop. It shakes and rattles and rolls more than Bill Haley. If you're going to mass-produce a crappy small car, might as well pervert the image of your elite sports car company.

Oh, I don't begrudge you buying a Maserati SUV or mini van, but I will and do judge you just a teeny bit. If you want to buy an expensive van that touts you as a big and free spender, Mercedes has an entire division dedicated to vans, from cargo to camping. And Range Rover is the elite SUV for those of you with money burning a hole in your back pocket. I have to be honest, though -- if I ever buy a Maserati, it won't be to haul the soccer team to games.

I know, I know. To each his own, mind my own business, and judge not lest ye be judged. Right? But, come on. Really, Maserati? Do you truly think anyone can take your sports cars seriously when you're also offering the Ken and Karen of motor vehicles on the same damn lot?

Thanks for the laugh, at least. It kind of made my afternoon and made my old sedan feel a little less pedantic.

ENCHANTED BY THE VILLAGE

Jordan Marsh, a mid-scale department store, opened in Boston in 1841. One hundred years later, Jordan Marsh upped its holiday spirit by turning its entire top floor into an Enchanted Village, a display that included the street-level store windows, and eventually included nearly thirty individual holiday scenes and about 250 animated mannequins. 

The annual display ceased in the seventies, but made a brief renaissance in the nineties before the store finally closed up shop for good. Such a shame, too, because Downtown Crossing was the place to go, short of NYC, to see holiday window displays. Oh, sure, there are a few stores still thriving in a redone attempt at Downtown Crossing, but it will never be the heyday that it once was when Jordan Marsh's flagship store and Filene's Basement (famous for the Running of the Brides sale) were the "in" places for holiday visiting. 

The Enchanted Village dissolved into oblivion, nothing but memories for those of us who grew up visiting the Enchanted Village during its reign. Until an auction. Yup. The Enchanted Village actually came into auction, and Eliot Tatelman cast the winning bid in a furious and blisteringly rapid event: Eight minutes. In well-under ten minutes, the Enchanted Village would be getting a new home.

Tatelman, for those unfamiliar with New England retail, is former owner and current CEO of Jordan's Furniture (no relation to Jordan Marsh - just a coincidence) conglomerate. He felt the New England tradition should live on and bought the surviving pieces of the original Enchanted Village, setting up mannequin triage and set design to refurbish the spectacle.

Those of us who remember the original sprawling display may be a little disappointed when we reach the end all too quickly, but the addition of snow machines do make for a fun and free experience. One suggestion -- lose the obligatory photo ops on the way in as it really holds up the already way-too-long lines in the furniture warehouse area. Maybe make separate lines for those wanting photos and let the rest of us mosey on into the display.

Either way, if you've never been, it's worth a walk-through. There are also the original-recipe Jordan Marsh Blueberry Muffins for sale (reasonably priced at $13 for 6). It's about twenty minutes south of Boston in Avon, so it's not too far out of the way. And, for those who find assembled furniture a drag, you can pop down the street to Ikea when you're done.

TOLD YA SO

I don't know who ordered this weather, but, for the love of all things sane, please make it stop.

I am sick and tired of this November heat wave. Some of you think this is the greatest thing since Betty White, but I'm telling you, this weather is crap and I hate it.

I'm ready for the snow. I'm ready for the cold. I'm ready for pre-warmed car seats and I'm ready for windshield scrapers. I'm ready for my heat to be on and for my fireplace to be lit. I'm ready to see snowflakes flying. 

Instead, I see plants blooming and rose bushes covered with colorful flowers. People are walking around in t-shirts and shorts. Windows are open in cars and in houses. Humanity and nature are both totally and completely whacked out by this ridiculous temperature behavior.

It's plus-70 degrees . . . and everyone is so happy. Except for me.

I'm trying to get into the holiday spirit, and this whole back-to-summer garbage is just frying my head. Plus, my allergies are back in overdrive. Air conditioning is off at school, and it's stuffy as hell in that building. I can't properly dress myself because what is appropriate at 7:00 a.m. will be completely overly-dressed by noontime.

I'm glad you're all happy. But, when the snow starts flying and the ice storms knock out your power and your holiday plans are ruined and you lose your big toes to frostbite, don't come crying to me. I'll just chuckle and say, "Told ya so."

MAGIC CARPET SHOPPING

Recently I drag my friends with me to do a family-related errand. They have no dog in the fight, but they drive me around and even cap off the day with soft-serve ice cream from a seemingly rinky-dink place near their home that actually serves epic product. As a thank-you for their assistance, I tag along while they rug shop. 

Before I knew that my new apartment had wall-to-wall carpeting (apparently not one of the updated units), I was rug shopping, too. I remember it as being a not-so-pleasant experience. Either the carpets were the wrong size, or I couldn't order the color I wanted, or it was too heavy for me to carry up the stairs after delivery, or it wouldn't fit in my car . . .  Any number of traumatic pitfalls. 

In short, I had an idea what they were facing.

And the prices. Holy crap, one would think little elves hooked each and every fiber along with gold dust for good measure. I could take a college course or two for the price of one 8x10 rug. The one and only requirement my friends have: NO GEOMETRIC PATTERNS. Simple enough request. Right?

So, among the several places we search, we stop at an actual carpet specialty store. The salesman is pleasant enough, but he is obviously not listening to my friends. They describe the color schemes they want -- he directs them to every sample except those colors. "Is this one available in green?"  GREEN?! Like he hadn't heard them say it two dozen times.

"Let me show you some other ones with patterns and color mixes."  Okay, sounds good. Except my friends say, "Sure, but remember -- no geometric patterns."

Well, there is an occasional wavy looking carpet, and occasional stripe, and even some plaid-type patterns, but most of the carpet samples that the guy shows my friends are humongous, gaudy, tacky, room-devouring geometric patterns.

My friends are trying to be patient with the guy. I start pacing. I leave the area they're in, pace pace pace for a minute, and head back only to find yet another grotesque geometric pattern being foisted upon my pals. I lean to my friend and whisper, "Did this guy fail math? Maybe kindergarten? Does he not know what a geometric pattern means?"

Now, really, if he is that dense, then leave the room for a second and Google the answer. Ask Siri. Ask Alexa. Ask Maxine the cartoon old lady, for crimeny's sake. At this point, at least one of my friends is considering knifing the guy. I just want to smack him upside of his head.  Needless to say, this is a NO SALE day for Bozo the Flying Magic Carpet Clown.

I am pleased to say that my friends did find a wonderful rug at a fabulous price at a home store a little while later. Before the ice cream. The ice cream was a treat for finding the prize carpet and for not rolling the earlier salesmen into one of his own products and dumping him among the geometrically shaped rocks behind the store.