Confessions of a sucker

I don't understand why everyone carries on all the time about the economy. I'm doing all I can to keep it going, spending money morning, noon and night. If everyone behaved like me, the economy would be doing great. Unemployment would be 0.000 percent.

Remember the days you had to go shopping in actual stores? I had no problem then. Stores keep regular business hours, and if they're not open you can't shop. This kept the monkey off my back a reasonable amount of time.

But then television direct ads began. I'm a sucker for them-- the kind that offer items for two (or three or six, whatever) easy payments of $19.95. You know the drill:

Act now! and we will send a second ***** absolutely free! plus this gizmo! All you pay is shipping! Our agents are standing by--call 555-555-1234 Now!

I admit to possessing a set of Debbie Meyer green bags, a dustbuster, the kind of flashlight you shake, and a rechargable sweeper. These are in the house, and I actually use them. Goodness knows what else has found its way to that Final Resting Place, the garage.

I also love special offers by mail. But they have to be really special. Macy's sends me coupons practically every week, offering me 20 percent, 15 percent, $10, or $25 off everything in the store! Every week, I faithfully report to my local Macy's, where I usually can be trusted to buy some damn thing I don't need, probably shoes. My collection of shoes is growing to such an extent that I have a special annex in the basement for the out of season shoes--boots in winter, sandals in summer--as well as a box in the spare bedroom for the shoes that are going to Good Will.

But wait--there's more! I have under the bed storage boxes for the overflow shoes. I don't even know exactly what's in those boxes, because I only clean under the beds twice a year. Whatever is in those boxes, I don't miss it, or even remember I have it, because I don't have time to open those boxes on the rare occasions I clean under the beds. And obviously, whatever is in them, I don't need it. If I needed it I would undoubtedly have gone out and bought another one by this time.

I was fine until e-mail offers were added to the mix. Now I am totally out-of-control, because I can buy something on the Internet 24/7. In the middle of the night I can respond to all the tempting offers I get every day by e-mail. (No, I'm not referring to penis extenders or Viagra. What filthy minds some people have!)

Just yesterday, HP offered to sell me a video cam for $59.95. I was strongly tempted. $59.95! I don't actually know what I would do with a video cam, how to operate one, or, actually, exactly what it is. But I want one! It's only $59.95 (plus shipping and handling). How could you go wrong?

shopping with Mother and Bubbe

(recycled)
I really dreaded going shopping with my mother and her mother, my bubbe, especially in classy, high-toned stores. For one thing, mother and bubbe used to talk Yiddish very loudly to one another, deprecating the merchandise on offer and the manners, morals, and appearance of the other shoppers.

I hated to be seen in public with these back numbers who spoke a foreign language which I was sure sounded low-class to everyone else (why couldn't they speak French?). I also feared that someone would understand what they were saying about the fat lady in the tight pants who was in front of us in the escalator. It was a lose-lose situation. Either we appeared to the other, high-toned shoppers like a bunch of huddled masses waiting to be processed at Ellis Island, or someone would actually understand what they were saying and see what low minds we had.

Also, bubbe appeared to believe that she was in a souk, when in reality she was in one of Columbus Ohio's premier specialty shops. She showed no respect.

For instance: we are looking for a blouse. The saleslady brings out a few, I try them on and decide on one. Bubbe grabs it and scrutinizes every inch of it, looking for flaws. She finds a speck of dirt on the collar and attempts to bargain with the snooty saleslady while my face turns red down to my toes. I try to pretend I'm interested in the scarves in the next display case, but in any case, try to look like I'm not with them.

Then, horror of horrors, she pretends to walk away! I could die! (I'm around fifteen at the time.) The snooty saleslady calls her manager, and they do a deal, but by this time, my self-esteem in destroyed. What if someone I knew had seen us? I'll never live it down.

When I was smaller and couldn't protest, bubbe and mother bought my clothes much too big in the hopes I would grow into them. Then they took them home and altered them to fit me, sort of. The idea being that the clothes could be let out next year. They never were, though. I wore them out first. But I went through childhood looking like I had borrowed my wardrobe from a larger child.

Of course, with maturity I could see where she was coming from. This was a woman who split one can of sardines among her three children, while she and her husband made do with dry toast and tea for supper. Fancy salesladies held no terror for her.

Shopping with Mother and Bubbe

I really dreaded going shopping with my mother and her mother, my bubbe, especially in classy, high-toned stores. For one thing, mother and bubbe used to talk Yiddish very loudly to one another, deprecating the merchandise on offer and the manners, morals, and appearance of the other shoppers.

I hated to be seen in public with these back numbers who spoke a foreign language which I was sure sounded low-class to everyone else (why couldn't they speak French?). I also feared that someone would understand what they were saying about the fat lady in the tight pants who was in front of us in the escalator. It was a lose-lose situation. Either we appeared to the other, high-toned shoppers like a bunch of huddled masses waiting to be processed at Ellis Island, or someone would actually understand what they were saying and see what low minds we had.

Also, bubbe appeared to believe that she was in a souk, when in reality she was in one of Columbus Ohio's premier specialty shops. She showed no respect.

For instance: we are looking for a blouse. The saleslady brings out a few, I try them on and decide on one. Bubbe grabs it and scrutinizes every inch of it, looking for flaws. She finds a speck of dirt on the collar and attempts to bargain with the snooty saleslady while my face turns red down to my toes. I try to pretend I'm interested in the scarves in the next display case, but in any case, try to look like I'm not with them.

Then, horror of horrors, she pretends to walk away! I could die! (I'm around fifteen at the time.) The snooty saleslady calls her manager, and they do a deal, but by this time, my self-esteem in destroyed. What if someone I knew had seen us? I'll never live it down.

When I was smaller and couldn't protest, bubbe and mother bought my clothes much too big in the hopes I would grow into them. Then they took them home and altered them to fit me, sort of. The idea being that the clothes could be let out next year. They never were, though. I wore them out first. But I went through childhood looking like I had borrowed my wardrobe from a larger child.

Of course, with maturity I could see where she was coming from. This was a woman who split one can of sardines among her three children, while she and her husband made do with dry toast and tea for supper. Fancy salesladies held no terror for her.